The  Lamplighter 


BY 


MAKIA   S.   CUMMINS 


NEW  AND  COMPLETE  EDITION 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1902, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

THE  issue  of  this  new  and  authorized  edition  of  "  The 
Lamplighter  "  will  not  be  without  interest  to  the  lover  of 
books.  Here  is  an  American  story  for  young  people  which 
has  been  in  constant  demand  for  almost  half  a  century. 
At  the  time  of  its  first  publication,  in  1854,  it  enjoyed  an 
immediate  popularity  second  only  to  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
and  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  which  were  then  the  most  recent 
great  successes  of  American  fiction.  Forty  thousand  copies 
of  "  The  Lamplighter "  were  sold  within  two  months. 
Edition  followed  edition,  in  this  country  and  in  England ; 
its  authorized  sales  had  exceeded  one  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  copies  before  most  of  the  young  readers  of  the 
present  generation  were  born  ;  and  how  many  "  Lamp- 
lighters  "  have  been  issued  in  the  unauthorized  and  muti 
lated  forms  in  which  the  book  has  too  often  appeared  can  be 
only  a  matter  of  conjecture.  Its  present  appearance  in  a 
new  dress  of  type,  and  with  a  text  scrupulously  faithful  to 
the  original  edition,  makes  pertinent  an  introductory  word 
concerning  its  half-forgotten  author  and  the  secret  of  the 
long  vitality  of  her  most  popular  book. 

Maria  Susanna  Cummins,  the  daughter  of  Judge  David 
Cummins,  was  born  in  Salem  April  9,  1827.  She  was 
educated  at  the  excellent  and  once  famous  school  of  Mrs. 
Charles  Sedgwick  in  Lenox,  where  she  found  herself  in  an 
atmosphere  of  good  breeding  and  of  good  literature.  She 
began  to  write  when  she  was  scarcely  more  than  twenty. 
"  The  Lamplighter  "  was  her  first  book  ;  and  like  so  many 
other  "  first  books  "  which  have  brought  fame  and  for 
tune  to  the  writer,  it  was  composed  without  any  thought 
of  achieving  reputation.  It  was  written  originally  for  the 
entertainment  of  one  of  her  nieces  during  a  period  of  ill- 

0575 


iv  PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

ness,  with  no  intention  of  publication.  But  the  manuscript 
found  friends,  as  did  the  manuscripts  of  "  Pride  and  Pre 
judice  "  and  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  At  the  urgent 
solicitation  of  those  who  had  read  it,  it  was  published,  at 
first  as  the  work  of  an  anonymous  writer.  Before  long, 
however,  the  fact  that  one  of  the  characters  was  drawn 
closely  from  a  recognizable  person  led  to  the  discovery  that 
Miss  Cummins  was  the  author.  Stimulated  by  the  extraor 
dinary  success  of  "  The  Lamplighter,"  Miss  Cummins 
wrote  other  stories,  such  as  "  Mabel  Vaughan  "  (1857), 
"  El  Fureidis,"  a  story  of  Palestine  and  Syria  (1860),  and 
"  Haunted  Hearts  "  (1864).  She  became  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly  "  and  other  magazines. 
But  her  sudden  popularity  left  her  quite  unspoiled.  A 
singular  modesty,  a  childlike  simplicity,  a  deep  and  beauti 
ful  religious  faith,  were  the  qualities  that  endeared  her  to 
her  friends  and  that  are  still  evidenced  by  what  was  written 
of  her  at  her  death,  which  occurred  in  Dorchester  October 
1,  1866.  As  her  pastor,  Rev.  Nathaniel  Hall,  declared  in 
his  memorial  discourse,  "  She  received  her  success  with  a 
simple  gladness,  less  that  she  was  famous  than  that  she 
might  be  useful;  less  that  she  had  gained  the  public's 
applause  than  that  she  had  touched,  to  issues  human  and 
philanthropic,  the  public's  heart,  and  caused  her  poor 
'Lamplighter'  to  be  the  means  of  illumining  other  and 
direr  darkness  than  that  of  night." 

Here  we  touch  the  secret  of  the  impression  made  by 
"  The  Lamplighter."  Its  didacticism,  its  conscious  moral 
purpose,  must  be  frankly  faced.  It  was  written  by  a  New 
England  Puritan,  believing  passionately  in  the  reality  of 
the  moral  and  religious  life.  The  aim  of  the  story  was  to 
"  do  good,"  and  it  was  placed  in  thousands  of  Sunday-school 
libraries.  But  the  people  who  write  books  in  this  spirit 
have  often  exhibited  an  extraordinary  story-telling  gift. 
That  passionate  belief  of  theirs  in  the  reality  and  significance 
of  the  moral  experience  of  their  heroes  and  heroines  com 
municates  itself  to  the  reader ;  it  becomes  the  very  stuff 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE  v 

from  which  a  good  story  is  made.  To  see  human  lives 
enfolded  in  what  Miss  Cummins's  pastor  called  that  "  other 
and  direr  darkness  than  that  of  night,"  to  watch  their  grad 
ual  escape  from  it  by  virtue  and  sacrifice  and  struggle  and 
faith,  —  this  is  to  view  life  in  one  of  its  dynamic,  dramatic 
aspects.  Many  a  so-called  "Sunday-school  story"  thus 
possesses  an  immense  literary  advantage  over  the  "  art 
for  art's  sake  "  narrative  composed  with  flawless  obedience 
to  the  canons  of  polite  literature.  One  cares  about  the 
people  in  "  The  Lamplighter ;  "  while  for  the  personages  of 
many  a  story  without  "  The  Lamplighter's  "  faults  one  does 
not  find  himself  caring  in  the  slightest. 

That  there  are  technical  defects  in  Miss  Cummins's  first 
story  may  be  granted  ;  the  tone  is  more  frankly  hortatory 
than  the  twentieth  century  approves,  there  is  some  conven 
tionality  in  plot,  and  not  a  few  pages  of  stilted  dialogue. 
But  the  old,  perennial  elements  of  human  interest  are  here 
too  :  an  orphaned  child ;  a  rough  but  kindly  protector ; 
slowly  won  friends  ;  changes  in  outward  circumstance  ;  in 
ward  growth  and  struggle ;  the  separation  and  reuniting  of 
those  who  love  each  other ;  a  touch  of  romantic  mystery ; 

"  Effort  and  expectation  and  desire, 
And  something  evermore  about  to  be  ;  " 

and,  permeating  all,  the  tonic  doctrine  that  goodness  and 
helpfulness  are  the  things  that  give  peace  at  the  last,  — 
such  are  the  permanently  interesting  things  to  be  found  in 
"  The  Lamplighter." 

4  PARK  ST.,  BOSTON, 
November,  1902. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   I 

Good  God !  to  think  upon  a  child 

That  has  no  childish  days, 
No  careless  play,  no  frolics  wild, 

No  words  of  prayer  and  praise! 

LANDON. 

IT  was  growing  dark  in  the  city.  Out  in  the  open  country 
it  would  be  light  for  half  an  hour  or  more ;  but  within  the  close 
streets,  where  my  story  leads  me,  it  was  already  dusk.  Upon 
the  wooden  doorstep  of  a  low-roofed,  dark,  and  unwholesome- 
looking  house  sat  a  little  girl,  who  was  gazing  up  the  street 
with  much  earnestness.  The  house- door,  which  was  open  be 
hind  her,  was  close  to  the  sidewalk ;  and  the  step  on  which  she 
sat  was  so  low  that  her  little  unshod  feet  rested  on  the  cold 
bricks.  It  was  a  chilly  evening  in  November,  and  a  light  fall 
of  snow,  which  had  made  everything  look  bright  and  clean  in 
the  pleasant,  open  squares  near  which  the  fine  houses  of  the 
city  were  built,  had  only  served  to  render  the  narrow  streets 
and  dark  lanes  dirtier  and  more  cheerless  than  ever ;  for,  mixed 
with  the  mud  and  filth  which  abound  in  those  neighborhoods 
where  the  poor  are  crowded  together,  the  beautiful  snow  had 
lost  all  its  purity. 

A  great  many  people  were  passing  to  and  fro,  bent  on  their 
various  errands  of  duty  or  of  pleasure ;  but  no  one  noticed  the 
little  girl,  for  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  who  cared  for  her. 
She  was  scantily  clad,  in  garments  of  the  poorest  description. 
Her  hair  was  long  and  very  thick ;  uncombed  and  unbecoming, 
if  anything  could  be  said  to  be  unbecoming  to  a  set  of  features 
which,  to  a  casual  observer,  had  not  a  single  attraction,  —  be 
ing  thin  and  sharp,  while  her  complexion  was  sallow  and  her 
whole  appearance  unhealthy. 

She  had,  to  be  sure,  fine,  dark  eyes ;  but  so  unnaturally  large 


2  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

aid  they  seem,  in  coatiast  to  her  thin,  puny  face,  that  they 
only  increased  the  peculiarity  of  it,  without  enhancing  its 
beauty.  Had  any  one  felt  any  interest  in  her  (which  nobody 
did),  had  she  had  a  mother  (which,  alas!  she  had  not),  those 
friendly  and  partial  eyes  would  perhaps  have  found  something 
in  her  to  praise.  As  it  was,  however,  the  poor  little  thing 
was  told,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  that  she  was  the  worst-looking 
child  in  the  world,  and,  what  was  more,  the  worst  behaved. 
No  one  loved  her,  and  she  loved  no  one ;  no  one  treated  her 
kindly;  no  one  tried  to  make  her  happy,  or  cared  whether  she 
were  so.  She  was  but  eight  years  old,  and  all  alone  in  the 
world. 

There  was  one  thing,  and  one  only,  which  she  found  pleasure 
in.  She  loved  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  old  man  who  lit 
the  street-lamp  in  front  of  the  house  where  she  lived;  to  see 
the  bright  torch  he  carried  flicker  in  the  wind ;  and  then,  when 
he  ran  up  his  ladder,  lit  the  lamp  so  quickly  and  easily,  and 
made  the  whole  place  seem  cheerful,  one  gleam  of  joy  was  shed 
on  a  little  desolate  heart,  to  which  gladness  was  a  stranger; 
and,  though  he  had  never  seemed  to  see,  and  certainly  had 
never  spoken  to  her,  she  almost  felt,  as  she  watched  for  the  old 
lamplighter,  as  if  he  were  a  friend. 

"Gerty,"  exclaimed  a  harsh  voice  within,  "have  you  been 
for  the  milk?" 

The  child  made  no  answer,  but,  gliding  off  the  doorstep, 
ran  quickly  round  the  corner  of  the  house  and  hid  a  little  out 
of  sight. 

"What 's  become  of  that  child?  "  said  the  woman  from  whom 
the  voice  proceeded,  and  who  now  showed  herself  at  the  door. 

A  boy  who  was  passing,  and  had  seen  Gerty  run,  —  a  boy 
who  had  caught  the  tone  of  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  looked 
upon  her  as  a  sort  of  imp  or  spirit  of  evil,  —  laughed  aloud, 
pointed  to  the  corner  which  concealed  her,  and,  walking  off 
with  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  to  see  what  would  happen 
next,  exclaimed  to  himself  as  he  went,  "She  '11  catch  it!  Nan 
Grant '11  fix  her!" 

In  a  moment  more,  Gerty  was  dragged  from  her  hiding-place, 
and,  with  one  blow  for  her  ugliness  and  another  for  her  impu 
dence  (for  she  was  making  up  faces  at  Nan  Grant  with  all  her 
might),  she  was  despatched  down  a  neighboring  alley  with  a 
kettle  for  the  milk. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  3 

She  ran  fast,  for  she  feared  the  lamplighter  would  come  and 
go  in  her  absence,  and  was  rejoiced,  on  her  return,  to  catch 
sight  of  him  as  she  drew  near  the  house,  just  going  up  his  lad 
der.  She  stationed  herself  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  was  so  en 
gaged  in  watching  the  bright  flame  that  she  did  not  observe 
when  the  man  began  to  descend;  and,  as  she  was  directly  in 
his  way,  he  hit  against  her  as  he  sprang  to  the  ground,  and  she 
fell  upon  the  pavement.  "  Hullo,  my  little  one !  "  exclaimed 
he,  "how  's  this?  "  as  he  stooped  to  lift  her  up. 

She  was  upon  her  feet  in  an  instant;  for  she  was  used  to 
hard  knocks,  and  did  not  much  mind  a  few  bruises.  But  the 
milk !  —  it  was  all  spilt. 

"Well,  now,  I  declare!"  said  the  man,  "that's  too  bad!  — 
what '11  mammy  say?"  and,  for  the  first  time  looking  full  in 
Gerty's  face,  he  here  interrupted  himself  with,  "My!  what  an 
odd-faced  child !  —  looks  like  a  witch !  "  Then,  seeing  that  she 
looked  apprehensively  at  the  spilt  milk,  and  gave  a  sudden 
glance  up  at  the  house,  he  added  kindly,  "She  won't  be  hard 
on  such  a  mite  of  a  thing  as  you  are ;  will  she  ?  Cheer  up,  my 
ducky!  never  mind  if  she  does  scold  you  a  little.  I'll  bring 
you  something  to-morrow  that  I  think  you'll  like,  maybe; 
you  're  such  a  lonesome  sort  of  a  looking  thing.  And,  mind, 
if  the  old  woman  makes  a  row,  tell  her  I  did  it.  But  didn't 
I  hurt  you  ?  What  was  you  doing  with  my  ladder  ?  " 

"I  was  seeing  you  light  the  lamp,"  said  Gerty,  "and  I  ain't 
hurt  a  bit;  but  I  wish  I  hadn't  spilt  the  milk." 

At  this  moment  Nan  Grant  came  to  the  door,  saw  what  had 
happened,  and  commenced  pulling  the  child  into  the  house, 
amidst  blows,  threats,  and  profane  and  brutal  language.  The 
lamplighter  tried  to  appease  her;  but  she  shut  the  door  in  his 
face.  Gerty  was  scolded,  beaten,  deprived  of  the  crust  which 
she  usually  got  for  her  supper,  and  shut  up  in  her  dark  attic 
for  the  night.  Poor  little  child!  Her  mother  had  died  in 
Nan  Grant's  house  five  years  before;  and  she  had  been  tolerated 
there  since,  not  so  much  because  when  Ben  Grant  went  to  sea 
he  had  bade  his  wife  be  sure  and  keep  the  child  until  his  return 
(for  he  had  been  gone  so  long  that  no  one  thought  he  would 
ever  come  back),  but  because  Nan  had  reasons  of  her  own  for 
doing  so ;  and,  though  she  considered  Gerty  a  dead  weight  upon 
her  hands,  she  did  not  care  to  excite  inquiries  by  trying  to  dis 
pose  of  her  elsewhere. 


4  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

When  Gerty  first  found  herself  locked  up  for  the  night  in 
Mie  dark  garret  (Gerty  hated  and  feared  the  dark),  she  stood 
for  a  minute  perfectly  still;  then  suddenly  began  to  stamp  and 
scream,  tried  to  beat  open  the  door,  and  shouted,  "I  hate  you, 
Nan  Grant !  Old  Nan  Grant,  I  hate  you !  "  But  nobody  came 
near  her;  and,  after  a  while,  she  grew  more  quiet,  went  and 
threw  herself  down  on  her  miserable  bed,  covered  her  face  with 
her  little  thin  hands,  and  sobbed  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  She  wept  until  she  was  utterly  exhausted;  and  then, 
gradually,  with  only  now  and  then  a  low  sob  and  catching  of 
the  breath,  she  grew  quite  still.  By  and  by  she  took  away  her 
hands  from  her  face,  clasped  them  together  in  a  convulsive  man 
ner,  and  looked  up  at  a  little  glazed  window  by  the  side  of  the 
bed.  It  was  but  three  panes  of  glass  unevenly  stuck  together, 
and  was  the  only  chance  of  light  the  room  had.  There  was  no 
moon;  but  as  Gerty  looked  up,  she  saw  through  the  window 
shining  down  upon  her  one  bright  star.  She  thought  she  had 
never  seen  anything  half  so  beautiful.  She  had  often  been  out 
of  doors  when  the  sky  was  full  of  stars,  and  had  not  noticed 
them  much;  but  this  one,  all  alone,  so  large,  so  bright,  and  yet 
so  soft  and  pleasant  looking,  seemed  to  speak  to  her;  it  seemed 
to  say,  "  Gerty,  Gerty !  poor  little  Gerty !  "  She  thought  it 
seemed  like  a  kind  face,  such  as  she  had  a  long  time  ago  seen 
or  dreamt  about.  Suddenly  it  flashed  through  her  mind, 
" Who  lit  it?  Somebody  lit  it!  Some  good  person,  I  know! 
Oh !  how  could  he  get  up  so  high ! "  And  Gerty  fell  asleep, 
wondering  who  lit  the  star. 

Poor  little,  untaught,  benighted  soul!  Who  shall  enlighten 
thee  1  Thou  art  God's  child,  little  one !  Christ  died  for  thee. 
Will  he  not  send  man  or  angel  to  light  up  the  darkness  within, 
to  kindle  a  light  that  shall  never  go  out,  —  the  light  that  shall 
shine  through  all  eternity  1 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   II 

Who  shall  assuage  thy  griefs,  "thou  tempest-toss* d! >1 
And  speak  of  comfort,  "  comfortless!  "  to  thee  ? 

EMILY  TAYLOR. 

GERTY  awoke  the  next  morning,  not  as  children  wake  who 
are  roused  by  each  other's  merry  voices,  or  by  a  parent's  kiss, 
who  have  kind  hands  to  help  them  dress,  and  know  that  a  nice 
breakfast  awaits  them.  But  she  heard  harsh  voices  below; 
knew,  from  the  sound,  that  the  men  who  lived  at  Nan  Grant's 
(her  son  and  two  or  three  boarders)  had  come  in  to  breakfast, 
and  that  her  only  chance  of  obtaining  any  share  of  the  meal 
was  to  be  on  the  spot  when  they  had  finished,  to  take  that 
portion  of  what  remained  which  Nan  might  chance  to  throw  or 
shove  towards  her.  So  she  crept  downstairs,  waited  a  little 
out  of  sight  until  she  smelt  the  smoke  of  the  men's  pipes  as 
they  passed  through  the  passage,  and,  when  they  had  all  gone 
noisily  out,  she  slid  into  the  room,  looking  about  her  with  a 
glance  made  up  of  fear  and  defiance.  She  met  but  a  rough 
greeting  from  Nan,  who  told  her  she  had  better  drop  that  ugly, 
sour  look;  eat  some  breakfast,  if  she  wanted  it,  but  take  care 
and  keep  out  of  her  way,  and  not  come  near  the  fire  plaguing 
round  where  she  was  at  work,  or  she  'd  get  another  dressing, 
worse  than  she  had  last  night. 

Gerty  had  not  looked  for  any  other  treatment,  so  there  was 
no  disappointment  to  bear;  but,  glad  enough  of  the  misera 
ble  food  left  for  her  on  the  table,  swallowed  it  eagerly,  and, 
waiting  no  second  bidding  to  keep  herself  out  of  the  way,  took 
her  little  old  hood,  threw  on  a  ragged  shawl,  which  had  be 
longed  to  her  mother,  and  which  had  long  been  the  child's  best 
protection  from  the  cold,  and,  though  her  hands  and  feet 
were  chilled  by  the  sharp  air  of  the  morning,  ran  out  of  the 
house. 

Back  of  the  building  where  Nan  Grant  lived  was  a  large 
wood  and  coal  yard ;  and  beyond  that  a  wharf,  and  the  thick, 
muddy  water  of  the  dock.  Gerty  might  have  found  playmates 


6  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

enough  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  place.  She  sometimes  did 
mingle  with  the  troops  of  boys  and  girls,  equally  ragged  with 
herself,  who  played  about  in  the  yard,  but  not  often,  —  there 
was  a  league  against  her  among  the  children  of  the  place.  Poor, 
ragged,  and  miserably  cared  for,  as  most  of  them  were,  they  all 
knew  that  Gerty  was  still  more  neglected  and  abused.  They 
had  often  seen  her  beaten,  and  daily  heard  her  called  an  ugly, 
wicked  child,  told  that  she  belonged  to  nobody,  and  had  no 
business  in  any  one's  house.  Children  as  they  were,  they  felt 
their  advantage,  and  scorned  the  little  outcast.  Perhaps  this 
would  not  have  been  the  case  if  Gerty  had  ever  mingled  freely 
with  them,  and  tried  to  be  on  friendly  terms.  But  while  her 
mother  lived  there  with  her,  though  it  was  but  a  short  time, 
she  did  her  best  to  keep  her  little  girl  away  from  the  rude 
herd.  Perhaps  that  habit  of  avoidance,  but  still  more  a  some 
thing  in  the  child's  nature,  kept  her  from  joining  in  their  rough 
sports,  after  her  mother's  death  had  left  her  to  do  as  she  liked. 
As  it  was,  she  seldom  had  any  intercourse  with  them.  Nor 
did  they  venture  to  abuse  her,  otherwise  than  in  words;  for, 
singly,  they  dared  not  cope  with  her ;  —  spirited,  sudden,  and 
violent,  she  had  made  herself  feared  as  well  as  disliked.  Once 
a  band  of  them  had  united  in  a  plan  to  tease  and  vex  her;  but 
Nan  Grant,  coming  up  at  the  moment  when  one  of  the  girls 
was  throwing  the  shoes,  which  she  had  pulled  from  Gerty 's 
feet,  into  the  dock,  had  given  the  girl  a  sound  whipping,  and 
put  them  all  to  flight.  Gerty  had  not  had  a  pair  of  shoes  since; 
but  Nan  Grant,  for  once,  had  done  her  good  service,  and  the 
children  now  left  her  in  peace. 

It  was  a  sunshiny,  though  a  cold  day,  when  Gerty  ran  away 
from  the  house  to  seek  shelter  in  the  wood-yard.  There  was 
an  immense  pile  of  timber  in  one  corner  of  the  yard,  almost  out 
of  sight  of  any  of  the  houses.  Of  different  lengths  and  un 
evenly  placed,  the  planks  formed  on  one  side  a  series  of  irreg 
ular  steps,  by  means  of  which  it  was  easy  to  climb  up.  Near 
the  top  was  a  little  sheltered  recess,  overhung  by  some  long 
planks,  and  forming  a  miniature  shed,  protected  by  the  wood  on 
all  sides  but  one,  and  from  that  looking  out  upon  the  water. 

This  was  Gerty 's  haven  of  rest,  her  sanctum,  and  the  only 
place  from  which  she  never  was  driven  away.  Here,  through 
the  long  summer  days,  the  little,  lonesome  child  sat,  brooding 
over  her  griefs,  her  wrongs,  and  her  ugliness;  sometimes  weep- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  7 

ing  for  hours.  Now  and  then,  when  the  course  of  her  life  had 
been  smooth  for  a  few  days  (that  is,  when  she  had  been  so  for 
tunate  as  to  offend  no  one,  and  had  escaped  whipping  or  being 
shut  up  in  the  dark),  she  would  get  a  little  more  cheerful,  and 
enjoy  watching  the  sailors  belonging  to  a  schooner  hard  by,  as 
they  labored  on  board  their  vessel,  or  occasionally  rowed  to  and 
fro  in  a  little  boat.  The  warm  sunshine  was  so  pleasant,  and 
the  men's  voices  at  their  work  so  lively,  that  the  poor  little 
thing  would  for  a  time  forget  her  woes. 

But  summer  had  gone;  the  schooner,  and  the  sailors  who 
had  been  such  pleasant  company,  had  gone  too.  The  weather 
was  now  cold,  and  for  a  few  days  it  had  been  so  stormy  that 
Gerty  had  been  obliged  to  stay  in  the  house.  Now,  however, 
she  made  the  best  of  her  way  to  her  little  hiding-place ;  and  to 
her  joy,  the  sunshine  had  reached  the  spot  before  her,  dried  up 
the  boards,  so  that  they  felt  warm  to  her  bare  feet,  and  was 
still  shining  so  bright  and  pleasant  that  Gerty  forgot  Nan 
Grant,  forgot  how  cold  she  had  been,  and  how  much  she  dreaded 
the  long  winter.  Her  thoughts  rambled  about  some  time,  but 
at  last  settled  down  upon  the  kind  look  and  voice  of  the  old 
lamplighter;  and  then,  for  the  first  time  since  the  promise  was 
made,  it  came  into  her  mind  that  he  had  engaged  to  bring  her 
something  the  next  time  he  came.  She  could  not  believe  he 
would  remember  it;  but  still,  he  might,  he  seemed  to  be  so 
good  natured,  and  sorry  for  her  fall. 

What  could  he  mean  to  bring  ?  Would  it  be  something  to 
eat?  0,  if  it  were  only  some  shoes!  But  he  wouldn't  think 
of  that.  Perhaps  he  did  not  notice  but  she  had  some. 

At  any  rate,  Gerty  resolved  to  go  for  her  milk  in  season  to 
be  back  before  it  was  time  to  light  the  lamp,  so  that  nothing 
should  prevent  her  seeing  him. 

The  day  seemed  unusually  long,  but  darkness  came  at  last; 
and  with  it  came  True  —  or  rather  Trueman  —  Flint,  for  that 
was  the  lamplighter's  name. 

Gerty  was  on  the  spot,  though  she  took  good  care  to  elude 
Nan  Grant's  observation. 

True  was  late  about  his  work  that  night,  and  in  a  great 
hurry.  He  had  only  time  to  speak  a  few  words  in  his  rough 
way  to  Gerty,  but  they  were  words  coming  straight  from  as 
good  and  honest  a  heart  as  ever  throbbed.  He  put  his  great, 
smutty  hand  on  her  head  in  the  kindest  way,  told  her  how  sorry 


8  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

he  was  she  got  hurt,  and  said,  "It  was  a  plaguy  shame  she 
should  have  been  whipped,  too,  and  all  for  a  spill  o'  milk,  that 
was  a  misfortin',  and  no  crime." 

"But  here,"  added  he,  diving  into  one  of  his  huge  pockets, 
"here's  the  critter  I  promised  you.  Take  good  care  on  't; 
don't  'buse  it;  and  I'm  guessin',  if  it's  like  the  mother  that 
I  've  got  at  home,  't  won't  be  a  little  ye  '11  be  likin'  it,  'fore 
you  're  done.  Good-by,  my  little  gal;"  and  he  shouldered  his 
ladder  and  went  off,  leaving  in  Gerty's  hands  a  little  gray  and 
white  kitten. 

Gerty  was  so  taken  by  surprise  on  finding  in  her  arms  a  live 
kitten,  something  so  different  from  what  she  had  anticipated, 
that  she  stood  for  a  minute  irresolute  what  to  do  with  it. 
There  were  a  great  many  cats,  of  all  sizes  and  colors,  inhabit 
ants  of  the  neighboring  houses  and  yard,  —  frightened-looking 
creatures,  which,  like  Gerty  herself,  crept  or  scampered  about, 
and  often  hid  themselves  among  the  wood  and  coal,  seeming 
to  feel,  as  she  did,  great  doubts  about  their  having  a  right  to 
be  anywhere.  Gerty  had  often  felt  a  sympathy  for  them,  but 
never  thought  of  trying  to  catch  one,  carry  it  home,  and  tame 
it ;  for  she  knew  that  food  and  shelter  were  most  grudgingly 
accorded  to  herself,  and  would  not  certainly  be  extended  to 
her  pets.  Her  first  thought,  therefore,  was  to  throw  the  kitten 
down  and  let  it  run  away. 

But  while  she  was  hesitating,  the  little  animal  pleaded  for 
itself  in  a  way  she  could  not  resist.  Frightened  by  its  long 
imprisonment  and  journey  in  True  Flint's  pocket,  it  crept  from 
Gerty's  arms  up  to  her  neck,  clung  there  tight,  and,  with  its 
low,  feeble  cries,  seemed  to  ask  her  to  take  care  of  it.  Its  elo 
quence  prevailed  over  all  fear  of  Nan  Grant's  anger.  She 
hugged  pussy  to  her  bosom,  and  made  a  childish  resolve  to  love 
it,  feed  it,  and,  above  all,  keep  it  out  of  Nan's  sight. 

How  much  she  came  in  time  to  love  that  kitten,  no  words 
can  tell.  Her  little,  fierce,  untamed,  impetuous  nature  had 
hitherto  only  expressed  itself  in  angry  passion,  sullen  obsti 
nacy,  and  even  hatred.  But  there  were  in  her  soul  fountains 
of  warm  affection  yet  unstirred,  a  depth  of  tenderness  never 
yet  called  out,  and  a  warmth  and  devotion  of  nature  that  wanted 
only  an  object  to  expend  themselves  upon. 

So  she  poured  out  such  wealth  of  love  on  the  little  creature 
that  clung  to  her  for  its  support  as  only  such  a  desolate  little 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  9 

heart  has  to  spare.  She  loved  the  kitten  all  the  more  for  the 
care  she  was  obliged  to  take  of  it,  and  the  trouble  and  anxiety 
it  gave  her.  She  kept  it,  as  much  as  possible,  out  among  the 
boards,  in  her  own  favorite  haunt.  She  found  an  old  hat,  in 
which  she  placed  her  own  hood,  to  make  a  bed  for  pussy.  She 
carried  it  a  part  of  her  own  scanty  meals;  she  braved  for  it 
what  she  would  not  have  done  for  herself;  for  she  almost  every 
day  abstracted  from  the  kettle,  when  she  was  returning  with 
the  milk  for  Nan  Grant,  enough  for  pussy's  supper,  running 
the  risk  of  being  discovered  and  punished,  the  only  risk  or 
harm  the  poor  ignorant  child  knew  or  thought  of,  in  connection 
with  the  theft  and  deception ;  for  her  ideas  of  abstract  right 
and  wrong  were  utterly  undeveloped.  She  would  play  with  her 
kitten  for  hours  among  the  boards,  talk  to  it,  and  tell  it  how 
much  she  loved  it.  But  when  the  days  were  very  cold,  she 
was  often  puzzled  to  know  how  to  keep  herself  warm  out  of 
doors,  and  the  risk  of  bringing  the  kitten  into  the  house  was 
great.  She  would  then  hide  it  in  her  bosom,  and  run  with  it 
into  the  little  garret-room  where  she  slept;  and,  taking  care  to 
keep  the  door  shut,  usually  eluded  Nan's  eyes  and  ears.  Once 
or  twice,  when  she  had  been  off  her  guard,  her  little  playful 
pet  had  escaped  from  her,  and  scampered  through  the  lower 
room  and  passage.  Once  Nan  drove  it  out  with  a  broom ;  but 
in  that  thickly  peopled  region,  as  we  have  said,  cats  and  kittens 
were  not  so  uncommon  as  to  excite  inquiry. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Gerty  had  leisure  to  spend  all  her 
time  at  play.  Most  children  living  among  the  poorer  class 
of  people  learn  to  be  useful  even  while  they  are  very  young. 
Numbers  of  little  creatures,  only  a  few  years  old,  may  be  seen  in 
our  streets,  about  the  yards  and  doors  of  houses,  bending  under 
the  weight  of  a  large  bundle  of  sticks,  a  basket  of  shavings, 
or,  more  frequently  yet,  a  stout  baby,  nearly  all  the  care  of 
which  devolves  upon  them.  We  have  often  pitied  such  little 
drudges,  and  thought  their  lot  a  hard  one.  But,  after  all,  it 
was  not  the  worst  thing  in  the  world ;  they  were  far  better  off 
than  Gerty,  who  had  nothing  to  do  at  all,  and  had  never  known 
the  satisfaction  of  helping  anybody.  Nan  Grant  had  no  babies ; 
and,  being  a  very  active  woman,  with  but  a  poor  opinion  of 
children's  services  at  the  best,  she  never  tried  to  find  employ 
ment  for  Gerty,  much  better  satisfied  if  she  would  only  keep 
out  of  her  sight;  so  that,  except  her  daily  errand  for  the  milk, 


10  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Gerty  was  always  idle,  —  a  fruitful  source  of  unhappiness  and 
discontent,  if  she  had  suffered  from  no  other. 

Nan  was  a  Scotchwoman,  no  longer  young,  and  with  a  tem 
per  which,  never  good,  became  worse  and  worse  as  she  grew 
older.  She  had  seen  life's  roughest  side,  had  always  been  a 
hard-working  woman,  and  had  the  reputation  of  being  very 
smart  and  a  driver.  Her  husband  was  a  carpenter  by  trade; 
but  she  made  his  home  so  uncomfortable  that  for  years  he  had 
followed  the  sea.  She  took  in  washing,  and  had  a  few  board 
ers;  by  means  of  which  she  earned  what  might  have  been  an 
ample  support  for  herself,  had  it  not  been  for  her  son,  an  un 
ruly,  disorderly  young  man,  spoilt  in  early  life  by  his  mother's 
uneven  temper  and  management,  and  who,  though  a  skilful 
workman  when  he  chose  to  be  industrious,  always  squandered 
his  own  and  a  large  portion  of  his  mother's  earnings.  Nan,  as 
we  have  said,  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  keeping  Gerty,  though 
they  were  not  so  strong  as  to  prevent  her  often  having  half  a 
mind  to  rid  herself  of  the  encumbrance. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  11 


CHAPTER  III 

Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road, 
Thou  wretched  outcast! 

WORDSWORTH. 

WHEN  Gerty  had  had  her  kitten  about  a  month,  she  took  a 
violent  cold  from  being  out  in  the  damp  and  rain ;  and  Nan, 
fearing  she  should  have  trouble  with  her  if  she  became  seriously 
ill,  bade  her  stay  in  the  house,  and  keep  in  the  warm  room 
where  she  was  at  work.  Gerty 's  cough  was  fearful;  and  it 
would  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  sit  by  the  stove  all  day  and 
keep  warm,  had  it  not  been  for  her  anxiety  about  the  kitten,  lest 
it  should  get  lost  or  starve  before  she  was  well  enough  to  be 
out  taking  care  of  it,  or,  worst  of  all,  come  running  into  the 
house  in  search  of  her.  The  whole  day  passed  away,  however, 
and  nothing  was  seen  of  pussy.  Towards  night,  the  men  were 
heard  coming  in  to  supper.  Just  as  they  entered  the  door  of 
the  room  where  Nan  and  Gerty  were,  and  where  the  coarse 
meal  was  prepared,  one  of  them  stumbled  over  the  kitten,  which 
had  come  in  with  them,  unperceived. 

"Cracky!  what's  this  'ere?"  said  the  man,  whom  they  all 
were  accustomed  to  call  Jemmy;  "a  cat,  I  vow!  Why,  Nan, 
I  thought  you  kind  o'  hated  cats ! " 

"Well,  't ain't  none  o'  mine;  drive  it  out,"  said  Nan. 

Jemmy  started  to  do  so;  but  puss,  suddenly  drawing  back, 
and  making  a  circuit  round  his  legs,  sprang  forward  into  the 
arms  of  Gerty,  who  was  anxiously  watching  its  fate. 

"Whose  kitten  's  that,  Gerty  1 "  said  Nan. 

"  Mine !  "  said  Gerty  bravely. 

"  Well,  how  long  have  you  kept  cats,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 
said  Nan.  "  Speak !  How  came  you  by  this  ?  " 

The  men  were  all  looking  on.  Gerty  was  afraid  of  the  men. 
They  sometimes  teased,  and  were  always  a  source  of  alarm  to 
her.  She  could  not  think  of  acknowledging  to  whom  she  was 
indebted  for  the  gift  of  the  kitten;  she  knew  it  would  only 
make  matters  worse,  for  Nan  had  never  forgiven  True  Flint's 


12  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 

\ 

rough  expostulation  against  her  cruelty  in  beating  the  child  for 
spilling  the  milk;  and  Gerty  could  not  summon  presence  of 
mind  to  think  of  any  other  source  to  which  she  could  ascribe 
the  kitten's  presence,  or  she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  tell 
a  falsehood;  for  her  very  limited  education  had  not  taught  her 
a  love  or  habit  of  truth,  where  a  lie  would  better  serve  her  turn 
and  save  her  from  punishment.  She  was  silent,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Come,"  said  Jemmy,  "give  us  some  supper,  Nan,  and  let 
the  gal  alone  till  afterwards." 

Nan  complied,  ominously  muttering,  however. 

The  supper  was  just  finished,  when  an  organ-grinder  struck 
up  a  tune  outside  the  door.  The  men  stepped  out  to  join  the 
crowd,  consisting  chiefly  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  who  were 
watching  the  motions  of  a  monkey  that  danced  in  time  to  the 
music.  Gerty  ran  to  the  window  to  look  out.  Delighted  with 
the  gambols  of  the  creature,  she  gazed  intently  until  the  man 
and  monkey  moved  off;  so  intently  that  she  did  not  miss  the 
kitten,  which,  in  the  meantime,  crept  down  from  her  arms 
and,  springing  upon  the  table,  began  to  devour  the  remnants  of 
the  repast.  The  organ-grinder  was  not  out  of  sight  when 
Gerty 's  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  of  the  old  lamplighter  coming 
up  the  street.  She  thought  she  would  stay  and  watch  him  light 
his  lamp,  when  she  was  startled  by  a  sharp  and  angry  exclama 
tion  from  Nan,  and  turned  just  in  time  to  see  her  snatch  her 
darling  kitten  from  the  table.  Gerty  sprang  forward  to  the 
rescue,  jumped  into  a  chair,  and  caught  Nan  by  the  arm;  but 
she  firmly  pushed  her  back  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other 
she  threw  the  kitten  half  across  the  room.  Gerty  heard  a  sud 
den  splash  and  a  piercing  cry.  Nan  had  flung  the  poor  crea 
ture  into  a  large  vessel  of  steaming-hot  water,  which  stood 
ready  for  some  household  purpose.  The  little  animal  struggled 
and  writhed  an  instant,  then  died  in  torture. 

All  the  fury  of  Gerty 's  nature  was  roused.  Without  hesita 
tion,  she  lifted  a  stick  of  wood  which  lay  near  her,  and  flung 
it  at  Nan  with  all  her  strength.  It  was  well  aimed,  and  struck 
the  woman  on  the  head.  The  blood  started  from  the  wound 
the  blow  had  given ;  but  Nan  hardly  felt  the  blow,  so  greatly 
was  she  excited  against  the  child.  She  sprang  upon  her,  caught 
her  by  the  shoulder,  and,  opening  the  house-door,  thrust  her 
out  upon  the  sidewalk.  "Ye  '11  never  darken  my  doors  again, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  13 

yer  imp  of  wickedness !  "  said  she,  as  she  rushed  into  the  house, 
leaving  the  child  alone  in  the  cold,  dark  night. 

When  Gerty  was  angry  or  grieved,  she  always  cried  aloud, 
—  not  sobbing,  as  many  children  do,  but  uttering  a  succession 
of  piercing  shrieks,  until  she  sometimes  quite  exhausted  her 
strength.  When  she  found  herself  in  the  street,  she  com 
menced  screaming,  —  not  from  fear  at  being  turned  away  from 
her  only  home,  and  left  all  alone  at  nightfall  to  wander  about 
the  city,  and,  perhaps,  freeze  before  morning  (for  it  was  very 
cold) ;  she  did  not  think  of  herself  for  a  moment.  Horror  and 
grief  at  the  dreadful  fate  of  the  only  thing  she  loved  in  the 
world  entirely  rilled  her  little  soul.  So  she  crouched  down 
against  the  side  of  the  house,  her  face  hid  in  her  hands,  uncon 
scious  of  the  noise  she  was  making,  and  unaware  of  the  tri 
umph  of  the  girl  who  had  once  thrown  away  her  shoes,  and  who 
was  watching  her  from  the  house-door  opposite.  Suddenly  she 
found  herself  lifted  up  and  placed  on  one  of  the  rounds  of  True- 
man  Flint's  ladder,  which  still  leaned  against  the  lamp-post. 
True  held  her  firmly,  just  high  enough  on  the  ladder  to  bring 
her  face  opposite  his,  recognized  her  as  his  old  acquaintance, 
and  asked  her,  in  the  same  kind  way  he  had  used  on  the  former 
occasion,  what  was  the  matter. 

But  Gerty  could  only  gasp  and  say,  "0  my  kitten!  my 
kitten!" 

"What!  the  kitten  I  gave  you?  Well,  have  you  lost  it? 
Don't  cry !  there  —  don't  cry !  " 

"0  no !  not  lost !  0  poor  kitty !  "  and  Gerty  began  to  cry 
louder  than  ever,  and  coughed  at  the  same  time  so  dreadfully 
that  True  was  quite  frightened  for  the  child.  Making  every 
effort  to  soothe  her,  and  having  partially  succeeded,  he  told  her 
she  would  catch  her  death  o'  cold,  and  she  must  go  into  the 
house. 

"0  she  won't  let  me  in!"  said  Gerty,  "and  I  wouldn't 
go,  if  she  would !  " 

"Who  won't  let  you  in  —  your  mother?  " 

"No.     Nan  Grant." 

"Who's  Nan  Grant?" 

"She  's  a  horrid,  wicked  woman,  that  drowned  my  kitten  in 
bilin'  water!" 

"But  where  's  your  mother?  " 

"I  hain't  got  none." 


14  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  Who  do  you  belong  to,  you  poor  little  thing  1 " 

"Nobody;  and  I  've  no  business  anywhere!  " 

"But  who  do  you  live  with,  and  who  takes  care  of  you? " 

"0,  I  lived  with  Nan  Grant;  but  I  hate  her.  I  threw  a 
stick  of  wood  at  her  head,  and  I  wish  I  'd  killed  her! " 

"Hush!  hush!  you  mustn't  say  that!  I'll  go  and  speak 
to  her." 

True  moved  towards  the  door,  trying  to  draw  Gerty  in  with 
him ;  but  she  resisted  so  forcibly  that  he  left  her  outside,  and, 
walking  directly  into  the  room  where  Nan  was  binding  up  her 
head  with  an  old  handkerchief,  told  her  she  had  better  call  her 
little  girl  in,  for  she  would  freeze  to  death  out  there. 

"She  's  no  child  of  mine,"  said  Nan;  "she  's  been  here  long 
enough;  she  's  the  worst  little  creature  that  ever  lived;  it 's  a 
wonder  I  've  kept  her  so  long;  and  now  I  hope  I  '11  never  lay 
*yes  on  her  agin,  — and  what's  more,  I  don't  mean  to.  She 
wight  to  be  hung  for  breaking  my  head!  I  believe  she  's  got 
an  ill  spirit  in  her,  if  ever  anybody  did  have  in  this  world ! " 

"But  what  '11  become  of  her?  "  said  True.  "It 's  a  fearful 
cold  night.  How  'd  you  feel,  marm,  if  she  were  found  to 
morrow  morning  all  friz  up  just  on  your  doorstep?  " 

"How'd  I  feel?  That's  your  business;  is  it?  S'posen 
you  take  care  on  her  yourself!  Yer  make  a  mighty  deal  o'  fuss 
about  the  brat.  Carry  her  home,  and  try  how  yer  like  her. 
Yer 've  been  here  a-talkin'  to  me  about  her  once  afore;  and  I 
till  you  I  won't  hear  a  word  more.  Let  other  folks  see  to  her, 
I  say;  I've  had  more 'n  my  share;  and  as  to  her  freezin'  or 
dyin'  anyhow,  I  '11  risk  her.  Them  children  that  comes  into 
the  world  nobody  knows  how  don't  go  out  of  it  in  a  hurry. 
She  's  the  city's  property,  —  let  'em  look  out  for  her ;  and  you  'd 
better  go  'long,  and  not  meddle  with  what  don't  consarn  you." 

True  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  He  was  not  used  to  wo 
men  ;  and  an  angry  woman  was  the  most  formidable  thing  to 
him  in  the  world.  Nan's  flashing  eyes  and  menacing  attitude 
were  sufficient  warning  of  the  coming  tempest,  and  he  wisely 
hastened  away  before  it  should  burst  upon  his  head. 

Gerty  had  ceased  crying  when  he  came  out,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  the  greatest  interest. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "she  says  you  sha'n't  come  back." 

"0,  I  'm  so  glad!  "  said  Gerty. 

"But  where '11  you  go  to?" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  15 

"I  don't  know;  p'raps  I  '11  go  with  you,  and  see  you  light 
the  lamps." 

"But  where  '11  you  sleep  to-night?  " 

"I  don't  know  where;  I  haven't  got  any  house.  I  guess 
I  '11  sleep  out,  where  I  can  see  the  stars.  I  don't  like  dark 
places.  But  it  '11  be  cold;  won't  iU  " 

"My  goodness!     You  '11  freeze  to  death,  child." 

"Well,  what  '11  become  of  me  then  ?  " 

"The  Lord  only  knows!" 

True  looked  at  Gerty  in  perfect  wonder  and  distress.  He 
knew  nothing  about  children,  and  was  astonished  at  her  sim 
plicity.  He  could  not  leave  her  there,  such  a  cold  night;  but 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  could  do  with  her  if  he  took  her  home, 
for  he  lived  alone,  and  was  poor.  But  another  violent  cough 
ing  spell  decided  him  at  once  to  share  with  her  his  shelter,  fire, 
and  food,  for  one  night,  at  least.  So  he  took  her  by  the  hand, 
saying,  "Come  with  me;"  and  Gerty  ran  along  confidently  by 
his  side,  never  asking  whither. 

True  had  about  a  dozen  more  lamps  to  light  before  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  street,  when  his  round  of  duty  was  fin 
ished.  Gerty  watched  him  light  each  one  with  as  keen  an  in 
terest  as  if  that  were  the  only  object  for  which  she  was  in  his 
company,  and  it  was  only  after  they  had  reached  the  corner  of 
the  street,  and  walked  on  for  some  distance  without  stopping, 
that  she  inquired  where  they  were  going. 

"Going  home,"  said  True. 

"  Am  I  going  to  your  home  1 "  said  Gerty. 

"Yes,"  said  True,  "and  here  it  is." 

He  opened  a  little  gate  close  to  the  sidewalk.  It  led  into  ?, 
small  and  very  narrow  yard,  which  stretched  along  the  wholt 
length  of  a  decent  two-storied  house.  True  lived  in  the  back 
part  of  the  house;  so  they  went  through  the  yard,  passed  by 
several  windows  and  the  main  entrance,  and,  keeping  on  to  a 
small  door  in  the  rear,  opened  it  and  went  in.  Gerty  was  by 
this  time  trembling  with  the  cold;  her  little  bare  feet  were 
quite  blue  with  walking  so  far  on  the  pavements.  There  was 
a  stove  in  the  room  into  which  they  had  entered,  but  no  fire  in 
it.  It  was  a  large  room,  and  looked  as  if  it  might  be  pretty 
comfortable,  though  it  was  very  untidy.  True  made  as  much 
haste  as  he  could  to  dispose  of  his  ladder,  torch,  etc.,  in  an 
adjoining  shed,  and  then  bringing  in  a  handful  of  wood,  he  lit 


16  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

a  fire  in  the  stove.  In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  bright  blaze, 
and  the  chilly  atmosphere  grew  warm.  Drawing  an  old  wooden 
settle  up  to  the  fire,  he  threw  his  shaggy  great-coat  over  it, 
and  lifting  little  Gerty  up,  he  placed  her  gently  upon  the  com 
fortable  seat.  He  then  went  to  work  to  get  supper;  for  True 
was  an  old  bachelor,  and  accustomed  to  do  everything  for  him 
self.  He  made  tea;  then,  mixing  a  great  mug  full  for  Gerty, 
with  plenty  of  sugar  and  all  his  cent's  worth  of  milk,  he  pro 
duced  from  a  little  cupboard  a  loaf  of  bread,  cut  her  a  huge 
slice,  and  pressed  her  to  eat  and  drink  as  much  as  she  could; 
for  he  judged  well  when  he  concluded,  from  her  looks,  that 
she  had  not  always  been  well  fed;  and  so  much  satisfaction 
did  he  feel  in  her  evident  enjoyment  of  the  best  meal  she  had 
ever  had  that  he  forgot  to  partake  of  it  himself,  but  sat  watch 
ing  her  with  a  tenderness  which  proved  that  the  unerring  in 
stinct  of  childhood  had  not  been  wanting  in  Gerty,  when  she 
felt,  as  she  watched  True  about  his  work,  so  long  before  he 
ever  spoke  to  her,  that  he  was  a  friend  to  everybody,  even  to 
the  most  forlorn  little  girl  in  the  world. 

Trueman  Flint  was  born  and  brought  up  in  New  Hampshire ; 
but  when  fifteen  years  old,  being  left  an  orphan,  he  had  made 
his  way  to  Boston,  where  he  supported  himself  for  many  years 
by  whatever  employment  he  could  obtain ;  having  been,  at  dif 
ferent  times,  a  newspaper  carrier,  a  cab-driver,  a  porter,  a  wood 
cutter,  indeed,  a  jack-at-all-trades;  and  so  honest,  capable,  and 
good  tempered  had  he  always  shown  himself  that  he  every 
where  won  a  good  name,  and  had  sometimes  continued  for  years 
in  the  same  employ.  Previous  to  his  entering  upon  the  service 
in  which  we  find  him,  he  had  been  for  some  time  a  porter  in 
a  large  store,  owned  by  a  wealthy  and  generous  merchant. 
Being  one  day  engaged  in  removing  some  heavy  casks,  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  severely  injured  by  one  of  them  falling 
upon  his  chest.  For  a  long  time  no  hope  was  entertained  of 
his  recovering  from  the  effects  of  the  accident;  and  when  he  at 
last  began  to  mend,  his  health  returned  so  gradually  that  it  was 
a  year  before  he  was  able  to  be  at  work  again.  This  sickness 
swallowed  up  the  savings  of  years;  but  his  late  employer  never 
allowed  him  to  want  for  any  comforts,  provided  an  excellent 
physician,  and  saw  that  he  was  well  taken  care  of. 

True,  however,  had  never  been  the  same  man  since.  He 
rose  up  from  his  sick  bed  ten  years  older  in  constitution,  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  17 

his  strength  so  much  enfeebled  that  he  was  only  fit  for  some 
comparatively  light  employment.  It  was  then  that  his  kind 
friend  and  former  master  obtained  for  him  the  situation  he  now 
held  as  lamplighter;  in  addition  to  which,  he  frequently  earned 
considerable  sums  by  sawing  wood,  shovelling  snow,  etc. 

He  was  now  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  old,  a  stoutly 
built  man,  with  features  cut  in  one  of  nature's  rough  moulds, 
but  expressive  of  much  good-nature.  He  was  naturally  silent 
and  reserved,  lived  much  by  himself,  was  known  to  but  few 
people  in  the  city,  and  had  only  one  crony,  the  sexton  of  a 
neighboring  church,  a  very  old  man,  and  one  usually  considered 
very  cross-grained  and  uncompanionable. 

But  we  left  Gerty  finishing  her  supper;  and  now,  when  we 
return  to  her,  she  is  stretched  upon  the  wide  settle,  sound 
asleep,  covered  up  with  a  warm  blanket,  and  her  head  resting 
upon  a  pillow.  True  sits  beside  her;  her  little  thin  hand  lies 
in  his  great  palm,  —  occasionally  he  draws  the  blanket  closer 
round  her.  She  breathes  hard;  suddenly  she  gives  a  nervous 
start,  then  speaks  quickly ;  her  dreams  are  evidently  troubled. 
True  listens  intently  to  her  words,  as  she  exclaims  eagerly, 
"0,  don't!  don't  drown  my  kitty!"  and  then,  again,  in  a 
voice  of  fear,  "0,  she'll  catch  me!  she'll  catch  me!"  once 
m0re,  —  and  now  her  tones  are  touchingly  plaintive  and  ear 
nest,  —  "Dear,  dear,  good  old  man,  let  me  stay  with  you,  do 
let  me  stay  !  " 

Great  tears  are  in  Trueman  Flint's  eyes,  and  rolling  down 
the  furrows  of  his  rough  cheeks ;  he  lays  his  great  head  on  the 
pillow  and  draws  Gerty 's  little  face  close  to  his;  at  the  same 
time  smoothing  her  long,  uncombed  hair  with  his  hand.  He, 
too,  is  thinking  aloud.  What  does  he  say  ? 

"Catch  you!  no,  shesha'n'tf  Stay  with  me!  so  you  shall, 
I  promise  you,  poor  little  birdie !  All  alone  in  this  big  world, 
and  so  am  I.  Please  God,  we  '11  bide  together." 


18  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   IV 

In  age,  in  infancy,  from  others'  aid 
Is  all  our  hope  ;  to  teach  us  to  be  kind: 
That  Nature's  first,  last  lesson  to  mankind. 

YOUNG. 

LITTLE  Gerty  had  found  a  friend  and  a  protector;  and  it 
was  well  she  had,  for  suffering  and  neglect  had  well-nigh  cut 
short  her  sad  existence  and  ended  all  her  sorrows.  The  morn 
ing  after  True  took  her  home,  she  woke  in  a  high  fever,  her 
head  and  limbs  aching,  and  with  every  symptom  of  severe  ill 
ness.  She  looked  around,  and  found  she  was  alone  in  the 
room;  but  there  was  a  good  fire,  and  preparation  for  some 
breakfast.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  was  puzzled  to  know 
where  she  was,  and  what  had  happened  to  her;  for  the  room 
seemed  quite  strange,  now  that  she  first  saw  it  by  daylight. 
A  look  of  happiness  passed  over  her  little  sick  face  when  she 
recalled  the  events  of  the  previous  night,  and  thought  of  kind 
old  True,  and  the  new  home  she  had  found  with  him.  She  got 
up  and  went  to  the  window  to  look  out,  though  her  head  was 
strangely  giddy,  and  she  tottered  so  that  she  could  hardly  walk. 
The  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  and  it  was  still  stormy 
without.  It  seemed  as  if  the  snow  dazzled  Gerty's  eyes;  for 
she  suddenly  found  herself  quite  blinded,  her  head  grew  dizzy, 
she  staggered  and  fell. 

Trueman  came  in  a  moment  after,  and  was  very  much  fright 
ened  at  seeing  Gerty  stretched  upon  the  floor,  but  soon  found 
out  the  real  state  of  the  case,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  dur 
ing  the  night  that  she  was  a  very  sick  child,  and  was  not  sur 
prised  that  she  had  fainted  in  endeavoring  to  walk.  He  placed 
her  in  bed,  and  soon  succeeded  in  restoring  her  to  conscious 
ness  ;  but  for  three  weeks  from  that  time  she  never  sat  up,  ex 
cept  when  True  held  her  in  his  arms.  True  was  a  rough  and 
clumsy  man  about  most  things;  but  not  so  in  the  care  of  his 
little  charge.  He  knew  a  good  deal  about  sickness ;  was  some 
thing  of  a  doctor  and  nurse  in  his  simple  way;  and,  though  he 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  19 

had  never  had  much  to  do  with  children,  his  warm  heart  was 
a  trusty  guide,  and  taught  him  all  that  was  necessary  for 
Gerty's  comfort,  and  far,  far  more  kindness  than  she  had  ever 
experienced  before. 

Gerty  was  very  patient.  She  would  sometimes  lie  awake 
whole  nights,  suffering  from  pain  and  extreme  weariness  at  her 
long  confinement  to  a  sick-bed,  without  uttering  a  groan,  or 
making  any  noise,  lest  she  might  waken  True,  who  slept  on  the 
floor  beside  her,  when  he  could  so  far  forget  his  anxiety  about 
her  as  to  sleep  at  all.  Sometimes,  when  she  was  in  great  pain, 
True  had  carried  her  in  his  arms  for  hours;  but  even  then 
Gerty  would  try  to  appear  relieved  before  she  really  was  so, 
and  even  feign  sleep,  that  he  might  put  her  back  to  bed  again 
and  take  some  rest  himself.  Her  little  heart  was  full  of  love 
and  gratitude  to  her  kind  protector,  and  she  spent  much  of  her 
time  in  thinking  what  she  could  ever  do  for  liim  when  she  got 
well,  and  wondering  whether  she  were  capable  of  ever  learning 
to  do  any  good  thing  at  all.  True  was  often  obliged  to  leave 
her,  to  attend  to  his  work;  and  during  the  first  week  of  her 
sickness  she  was  much  alone,  though  everything  she  could  pos 
sibly  want  was  put  within  her  reach,  and  many  a  caution  given 
to  her  to  keep  still  in  bed  until  his  return.  At  last,  however, 
she  grew  delirious,  and  for  some  days  had  no  knowledge  how  she 
was  taken  care  of.  One  day,  after  a  long  and  quiet  sleep,  she 
woke  quite  restored  to  sense  and  consciousness,  and  saw  a  woman 
sitting  by  her  bedside  sewing. 

She  sprang  up  in  bed  to  look  at  the  stranger,  who  had  not 
observed  her  open  her  eyes,  but  who  started  the  moment  she 
heard  her  move,  and  exclaimed,  "0,  lie  down,  my  child!  lie 
down ! "  at  the  same  time  laying  her  hand  gently  upon  her,  to 
enforce  the  injunction. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  said  Gerty;  "where  ;s  my  Uncle 
True  1 "  for  that  was  the  name  by  which  True  had  told  her  to 
call  him. 

"He's  gone  out,  dear;  he'll  be  home  soon.  How  do  you 
feel, —better?" 

"0,  yes!  much  better.      Have  I  been  asleep  long?  " 

"Some  time;  lie  down  now,  and  I  '11  bring  you  some  gruel j 
it  will  be  good  for  you." 

"Does  Uncle  True  know  you  are  here?  " 

"Yes.      I  came  in  to  sit  with  you  while  he  was  away." 


20  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  Came  in  ?     From  where  ?  " 

"From  my  room.     I  live  in  the  other  part  of  the  house." 

"I  think  you  're  very  good,"  said  Gerty.  "I  like  you.  I 
wonder  why  I  did  not  see  you  when  you  came  in." 

"You  were  too  sick,  dear,  to  notice;  but  I  think  you  '11  soon 
be  better  now." 

The  woman  prepared  the  gruel,  and  after  Gerty  had  taken  it 
reseated  herself  at  her  work.  Gerty  lay  down  in  bed  with  her 
face  towards  her  new  friend,  and,  fixing  her  large  eyes  upon 
her,  watched  her  some  time  while  she  sat  sewing.  At  last  the 
woman  looked  up,  and  said,  "Well,  what  do  you  think  I'm 
making  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Gerty;  "what  are  you?  " 

The  woman  held  up  her  work,  so  that  Gerty  could  see  that 
it  was  a  dark  calico  frock  for  a  child. 

"0,  what  a  nice  gown!"  said  Gerty.  "Who  is  it  for,  — 
your  little  girl  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  "I  haven't  got  any  little  girl;  I  've 
only  got  one  child,  my  boy,  Willie." 

"Willie;  that 's  a  pretty  name,"  said  Gerty.  "Is  he  a  good 
boy  ? " 

"'Good?  He  's  the  best  boy  in  the  world,  and  the  handsom 
est  ! "  answered  the  woman,  her  pale,  careworn  face  lit  up  with 
all  a  mother's  pride. 

Gerty  turned  away,  and  a  look  so  unnaturally  sad  for  a  child 
came  over  her  countenance  that  the  woman,  looking  up, 
thought  she  was  getting  tired,  and  ought  to  be  kept  very  quiet. 
She  told  her  so,  and  bade  her  shut  up  her  eyes  and  go  to  sleep 
again.  Gerty  obeyed  the  first  injunction  and  lay  so  still  that 
the  latter  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be  fulfilled,  when  the  door 
opened  gently  and  True  came  in. 

"0!  Mis'  Sullivan,"  said  he,  "you're  here  still!  I'm 
very  much  obleeged  to  you  for  stayin' ;  I  hadn't  calkerlated  to 
be  gone  so  long.  And  how  does  the  child  seem  to  be,  marm  ?  " 

"Much  better,  Mr.  Flint.  She  's  come  to  her  reason,  and  I 
think,  with  care,  will  do  very  well  now.  0!  she's  awake," 
she  added,  seeing  Gerty  open  her  eyes. 

True  came  up  to  the  bedside,  stroked  back  her  hair,  now  cut 
short  and  neatly  arranged,  felt  of  her  pulse,  and  nodded  his 
head  satisfactorily.  Gerty  caught  his  great  hand  between  both 
of  hers,  and  held  it  tight.  He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  21 

"bed,  and,  glancing  at  Mrs.  Sullivan's  work,  said,  "I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  she  needed  her  new  clothes  sooner  than  we 
thought  for,  marm.  It 's  my  'pinion  we  '11  have  her  up  and 
about  afore  many  days." 

"So  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan;  "but  don't  be  in 
too  great  a  hurry.  She  's  had  a  very  severe  sickness,  and  her 
recovery  must  be  gradual.  Did  you  see  Miss  Graham  to-day  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did  see  her,  poor  thing!  The  Lord  bless  her  sweet 
face!  She  axed  a  sight  o'  questions  about  little  Gerty  here, 
and  gave  me  this  parcel  of  arrer-ioot,  I  think  she  called  it. 
She  says  it 's  excellent  in  sickness.  Did  you  ever  fix  any,  Mis' 
Sullivan,  so  that -you  can  jist  show  me  how,  if  you'll  be  so 
good  ?  for  I  declare  I  don't  remember,  though  she  took  a  deal 
o'  pains  to  tell  me." 

"0,  yes;  it 's  very  easy.  I  '11  come  in  and  prepare  some,  by 
and  by.  I  don't  think  Gerty  '11  want  any  at  present;  she  's  just 
had  some  gruel.  But  father  has  come  home,  and  I  must  be  see 
ing  about  our  tea.  I  '11  come  in  again,  this  evening  Mr.  Flint." 

"Thank  you,  marm,  thank  you;  you  're  very  kind." 

During  the  few  following  days  Mrs.  Sullivan  came  in  and 
sat  with  Gerty  several  times.  She  was  a  gentle,  subdued  sort 
of  woman,  with  a  placid  face  that  was  very  refreshing  to  a  child 
that  had  long  lived  in  fear,  and  suffered  a  great  deal  of  abuse. 
She  always  brought  her  work  with  her,  which  was  usually 
some  child's  garment  that  she  was  making. 

One  evening,  when  Gerty  had  nearly  recovered  from  her 
tedious  fever,  she  was  sitting  in  True's  lap  by  the  stove  fire, 
carefully  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket.  She  had  been  talking  to 
him  about  her  new  acquaintance  and  friend;  suddenly  looking 
up  in  his  face,  she  said,  "  Uncle  True,  do  you  know  what  little 
girl  she  's  making  a  gown  for? " 

"For  a  little  girl,"  said  True,  "that  needs  a  gown  and  a 
good  many  other  things;  for  she  hasn't  got  any  clothes,  as  I 
know  on,  except  a  few  old  rags.  Do  you  know  any  such  little 
girl,  Gerty?" 

"I  guess  I  do,"  said  Gerty,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side  and  a  very  knowing  look. 

"Well,  where  is  she?" 

"Ain't  she  in  your  lap? " 

"What,  you!  —  Why,  do  you  think  Mis'  Sullivan  would 
spend  her  time  making  clothes  for  you  1  " 


22  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"Well,"  said  Gerty,  hanging  her  head,  "I  shouldn't  think 
she  would ;  but  then  you  said  —  *' 

"  Well,  what  did  I  say  1  " 

"Something  about  new  clothes  for  me." 

"So  I  did,"  said  True,  giving  her  a  rough  hug;  "and  they 
are  for  you ;  —  two  whole  suits,  and  shoes  and  stockings  into 
the  bargain." 

Gerty  opened  her  large  eyes  in  amazement,  laughed,  and 
clapped  her  hands.  True  laughed  too;  they  both  seemed  very 
happy. 

"Did  she  buy  them,  Uncle  True?  Is  she  rich?"  said 
Gerty. 

"  Mis'  Sullivan  ?  —  ^STO,  indeed !  "  said  True.  "  Miss  Graham 
bought  'em,  and  is  going  to  pay  Mis'  Sullivan  for  making  them." 

"Who  is  Miss  Graham!" 

"  She  's  a  lady  too  good  for  this  world  —  that 's  sartin.  I  '11 
tell  you  about  her,  some  time;  but  I  better  not  now,  I  guess; 
it's  time  you  were  abed  and  asleep." 

One  Sabbath,  after  Gerty  was  nearly  well,  she  was  so  much 
fatigued  with  sitting  up  all  day  that  she  went  to  bed  before 
dark,  and  for  two  or  three  hours  slept  very  soundly.  On  awak 
ing,  she  saw  that  True  had  company.  An  old  man,  much  older, 
she  thought,  than  True,  was  sitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stove,  smoking  a  pipe.  His  dress,  though  of  ancient  fashion, 
and  homely  in  its  materials,  was  very  neat;  and  his  hair,  of 
which  he  had  but  little,  and  that  perfectly  white,  growing  in 
two  long  locks  just  behind  his  ears,  was  nicely  combed  up  and 
tied  on  the  top  of  his  head,  which  was  elsewhere  bald  and! 
shiny.  He  had  sharp  features,  and  Gerty  thought,  from  his 
looks,  it  must  be  easy  for  him  to  say  sharp  things;  indeed, 
rather  hard  for  him  to  say  anything  pleasant.  There  was  a 
sarcastic  expression  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  a  dis 
appointed  look  in  his  whole  face,  which  Gerty  observed,  though 
she  could  not  have  defined,  and  from  which  she  drew  her  con 
clusions  with  regard  to  his  temper.  She  rightly  conjectured 
that  he  was  Mrs.  Sullivan's  father,  Mr.  Cooper;  and  in  the 
opinion  she  formed  of  him  from  her  first  observation  she  did 
not  widely  differ  from  most  other  people  who  knew  the  old 
church-sexton.  But  both  his  own  face  and  public  opinion 
somewhat  wronged  him.  It  was  true  his  was  not  a  genial  na 
ture.  Domestic  trials,  and  the  unkindness  and  fickleness  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  23 

fortune,  had  caused  him  to  look  upon  the  dark  side  of  life,  — 
to  dwell  upon  its  sorrows,  and  frown  upon  the  bright  hopes  of 
the  young  and  the  gay,  who,  as  he  was  wont  to  say,  with  a 
mysterious  shake  of  his  head,  knew  but  little  of  the  world. 
The  occcupation,  too,  which  had  of  late  years  been  his  was  not 
calculated  to  counteract  a  disposition  to  melancholy;  his  duties 
in  the  church  were  mostly  solitary,  and,  as  he  was  much  with 
drawn  in  his  old  age  from  intercourse  with  the  world  at  large, 
he  had  become  severe  towards  its  follies,  and  unforgiving  to 
wards  its  crimes.  There  was  much  that  was  good  and  benevo 
lent  in  him,  however;  and  True  Flint  knew  it,  and  loved  to 
draw  it  out.  True  liked  the  old  man's  sincerity  and  honesty; 
and  many  a  Sabbath  evening  had  they  sat  by  that  same  fireside, 
and  discussed  all  those  questions  of  public  policy,  national  in 
stitutions,  and  individual  rights,  which  every  American  feels 
called  upon  to  take  under  his  especial  consideration,  beside  many 
matters  of  private  feeling  and  interest,  without  their  friendly 
relations  being  once  disturbed  or  endangered ;  and  this  was  the 
more  remarkable,  inasmuch  as  Trueman  Flint  was  the  very  re- 
verse  of  old  Paul  Cooper  in  disposition  and  temper,  being  hope 
ful  and  sanguine,  always  disposed  to  look  upon  the  bright  side 
of  things,  and,  however  discouraging  they  might  seem,  ever 
averring  that  it  was  his  opinion  't  would  all  come  out  right  at 
last.  On  the  evening  of  which  we  are  speaking,  they  had  been 
talking  on  several  of  their  usual  topics ;  but  when  Gerty  awoke, 
she  found  herself  the  subject  of  conversation.  Of  course  she 
soon  became  deeply  interested. 

"Where,"  said  Mr.  Cooper,  "did  you  say  you  picked  her 
up?" 

"At  Nan  Grant's,"  said  True.  "Don't  you  remember  her? 
She  's  the  same  woman  whose  son  you  were  called  up  to  wit 
ness  against,  at  the  time  the  church-windows  were  broken,  the 
night  afore  the  4th  of  July.  You  can't  have  forgotten  her  at 
the  trial,  Cooper;  for  she  blew  you  up  with  a  vengeance,  and 
didn't  spare  his  honor  the  Judge,  either.  Well,  'twas  just 
such  a  rage  she  was  in  with  this  'ere  child,  the  first  time  I  see 
her;  and  the  second  time  she  'd  just  turned  her  out  o'  doors." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  the  she- bear.  I  shouldn't  suppose 
she  'd  be  any  too  gentle  to  her  own  child,  much  less  a  stranger's; 
but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  foundling,  Flint  ? " 

"Do  with  her?  —  Keep  her,  to  be  sure,  and  take  care  on  her." 


24  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Cooper  laughed  rather  sarcastically. 

"Well,  now,  I  s'pose,  neighbor,  you  think  it's  rather  freak 
ish  in  me  to  be  adoptin'  a  child  at  my  time  o'  life;  and  p'raps 
it  is;  but  I  '11  explain  to  you  just  how  'twas.  She  'd  'a'  died 
that  night  I  tell  yer  on,  if  I  had  n't  brought  her  home  with 
me;  and  a  good  many  times  since,  what 's  more,  if  I,  with  the 
help  o'  your  darter,  hadn't  took  mighty  good  care  on  her. 
Well,  she  took  on  so  in  her  sleep,  the  first  night  ever  she  came, 
and  cried  out  to  me  all  as  if  she  never  had  a  friend  afore  (and 
I  doubt  me  she  never  had),  that  I  made  up  rny  mind  then  she 
should  stay,  at  any  rate,  and  I  'd  take  care  on  her,  and  share 
my  last  crust  with  the  wee  thing,  come  what  might.  The 
Lord  's  been  very  marciful  to  me,  Mr.  Cooper,  very  marciful. 
He  's  raised  me  up  friends  in  my  deep  distress.  I  knew,  when 
I  was  a  little  shaver,  what  a  lonesome  thing  it  was  to  be  father 
less  and  motherless;  and  when  I  see  this  little  sufferin'  human 
bein',  I  felt  as  if,  all  friendless  as  she  seemed,  she  was  more  par- 
tickerlerly  the  Lord's,  and  as  if  I  could  not  sarve  him  more, 
and  ought  not  to  sarve  him  less,  than  to  share  with  her  the 
blessin's  he  has  bestowed  on  me.  You  look  round,  neighbor, 
as  if  you  thought  'twa'n't  much  to  share  with  any  one;  and 
7t  ain't  much  there  is  here,  to  be  sure;  but  it 's  a  home,  — yes, 
a  home  ;  and  that 's  a  great  thing  to  her  that  never  had  one. 
I  've  got  my  hands  yet,  and  a  stout  heart,  and  a  willin'  mind. 
With  God's  help,  I  '11  be  a  father  to  that  child;  and  the  time 
may  come  when  she  '11  be  God's  embodied  blessin'  to  me." 

Mr.  Cooper  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  muttered  some 
thing  about  children,  even  one's  own,  not  being  apt  to  prove 
blessings. 

But  he  had  not  power  to  shake  Trueman's  high  faith  in  the 
wisdom,  as  well  as  righteousness,  of  his  own  proceedings.  He 
had  risen  in  the  earnestness  with  which  he  had  spoken,  and, 
after  pacing  the  room  hastily  and  with  excitement,  he  returned 
to  his  seat,  and  said,  "  Besides,  neighbor  Cooper,  if  I  had  not 
made  up  my  mind  the  night  Gerty  came  here,  I  wouldn't  have 
sent  her  away  after  the  next  day;  for  the  Lord,  I  think,  spoke 
to  me  by  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  holy  angels,  and  bade  me 
persevere  in  my  resolution.  You  've  seen  Miss  Graham.  She 
goes  to  your  church  regular,  with  the  fine  old  gentleman,  her 
father.  I  was  at  their  house  shovelling  snow,  after  the  great 
storm  three  weeks  since,  and  she  sent  for  me  to  come  into  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  25 

kitchen.  Well  may  I  bless  her  angel  face,  poor  thing!  —  if 
the  world  is  dark  to  her,  she  makes  it  light  to  other  folks.  She 
cannot  see  Heaven's  sunshine  outside;  but  she  's  better  off  than 
most  people,  for  she  's  got  it  in  her,  I  do  believe,  and  when  she 
smiles  it  lets  the  glory  out,  and  looks  like  God's  rainbow  in 
the  clouds.  She  's  done  me  many  a  kindness,  since  I  got  hurt 
so  bad  in  her  father's  store,  now  some  five  years  gone;  and  she 
sent  for  me  that  day  to  ask  how  I  did,  and  if  there  was  any 
thing  I  wanted  that  she  could  speak  to  the  master  about.  So 
I  told  her  all  about  little  Gerty ;  and  I  tell  you  she  and  I  both 
cried  'fore  I  'd  done.  She  put  some  money  into  my  hand,  and 
told  me  to  get  Mis'  Sullivan  to  make  some  clothes  for  Gerty; 
more  than  that,  she  promised  to  help  me  if  I  got  into  trouble 
with  the  care  of  her;  and  when  I  was  going  away,  she  said, 
'  I  'm  sure  you  've  done  quite  right,  True;  the  Lord  will  bless 
and  reward  your  kindness  to  that  poor  child. '  " 

True  was  so  excited  and  animated  by  his  subject  that  he  did 
not  notice  what  the  sexton  had  observed,  but  did  not  choose 
to  interrupt.  Gerty  had  risen  from  her  bed  and  was  standing 
beside  True,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  breathless  with  the 
interest  she  felt  in  his  words.  She  touched  his  shoulder;  he 
looked  round,  saw  her,  and  stretched  out  his  arms.  She  sprang 
into  them,  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and,  bursting  into  a 
paroxysm  of  joyful  tears,  gasped  out  the  words,  "Shall  I  stay 
with  you  always  ?  " 

"Yes,  just  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  True,  "you  shall  be  my 
child." 


26  THE  LAMPLIGHTEB 


CHAPTEK   V 

A  light,  busy  foot  astir 
In  her  small  housewifery;  the  blithest  bee 
That  ever  wrought  in  hive. 

MlLFORD. 

IT  was  a  stormy  evening.  Gerty  was  standing  at  the  win 
dow,  watching  for  True's  return  from  his  lamplighting.  She 
was  neatly  and  comfortably  dressed,  her  hair  smooth,  her  face 
and  hands  clean.  She  was  now  quite  well,  —  better  than  for 
years  before  her  sickness.  Care  and  kindness  had  done  won 
ders  for  her,  and  though  still  a  pale  and  rather  slender-looking 
child,  with  eyes  and  mouth  disproportionately  large  to  her  other 
features,  the  painful  look  of  suffering  she  had  been  wont  to 
wear  had  given  place  to  a  happy  though  rather  grave  expression. 
On  the  wide  window-sill  in  front  of  her  sat  a  plump  and  ven 
erable  cat,  parent  to  Gerty 's  lost  darling,  and  for  that  reason 
very  dear  to  her;  she  was  quietly  stroking  its  back,  while  the 
constant  purring  that  the  old  veteran  kept  up  proved  her  satis 
faction  at  the  arrangement. 

Suddenly  a  rumbling,  tumbling  sound  was  heard  in  the  wall. 
The  house  was  old,  and  furnished  with  ample  accommodations 
for  rats,  who  seemed,  from  the  noise,  to  have  availed  them 
selves  of  this  fact  to  give  a  ball,  such  an  excitement  were  they 
manifesting.  One  would  almost  have  thought  a  chimney  was 
falling  down,  brick  by  brick.  It  did  not  alarm  Gerty,  how 
ever;  she  was  used  to  old,  rat-inhabited  walls,  and  too  much 
accustomed  to  hearing  such  sounds  all  around  her,  when  she 
slept  in  the  garret  at  Kan  Grant's,  to  be  disturbed  by  them. 
Not  so,  however,  with  the  ancient  grimalkin,  who  pricked  up 
her  ears,  and  gave  every  sign  of  a  disposition  to  rush  into  bat 
tle.  No  war-horse  could  have  been  more  excited  by  the  sound 
of  the  trumpet  than  was  puss  at  the  rushing  of  her  foes  through 
the  ceiling. 

"Lie  still,  pussy,"  said  Gerty,  "lie  still,  I  say;  don't  you 
be  running  off  after  rats.  You  must  sit  up  straight,  and  be 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  27 

good,  till  you  see  Uncle  True  coming,  so  's  to  hear  what  he  '11 
say  when  he  sees  the  room  and  me." 

Here  Gerty  turned  and  glanced  around  the  room  with  an  air 
of  infinite  satisfaction;  then,  clambering  upon  the  wide,  old- 
fashioned  window-sill,  where  she  could  see  up  the  yard,  and 
have  a  full  view  of  the  lamplighter  the  moment  he  entered  the 
gate,  she  took  the  cat  in  her  arms,  smoothed  down  her  dress, 
gave  a  look  of  interest  and  pride  at  her  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  then  composed  herself,  with  a  determined  effort  to  be  pa 
tient.  It  would  not  do,  however;  she  could  not  be  patient; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  he  never  came  so  late  before,  and  she  was 
just  beginning  to  think  he  never  would  come  at  all,  when  he 
turned  into  the  gate.  It  was  nearly  dark,  but  Gerty  could  see 
that  there  was  some  person  with  him.  He  did  not  look  tall 
enough  to  be  Mr.  Cooper,  and  did  not  step  like  him;  but  she 
concluded  it  must  be  he,  for  whoever  it  was  stopped  at  his 
door  further  up  the  yard,  and  went  in.  Impatient  as  Gerty 
had  been  for  True's  arrival,  she  did  not  run  to  meet  him  as 
usual,  but  waited  in  a  listening  attitude,  until  she  heard  him 
come  in  through  the  shed,  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  stop 
ping  to  hang  up  his  ladder  and  lantern,  and  remove  the  soiled 
frock  and  overalls  which  he  wore  outside  his  clothes  when  about 
his  work.  She  then  ran  and  hid  behind  the  door  by  which  he 
must  enter  the  room.  She  evidently  had  some  great  surprise 
in  store  for  him,  and  meant  to  enjoy  it  to  the  utmost.  The  cat, 
not  being  so  full  of  the  matter,  whatever  it  was,  was  more  mind 
ful  of  her  manners,  and  went  to  meet  him,  rubbing  her  head 
against  his  legs,  which  was  her  customary  welcome. 

"Hullo,  whiskers!  "  said  True;  "where  's  my  little  gal? " 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him  as  he  spoke,  thus  disclosing 
Gerty  to  view.  She  sprang  forward  with  a  bound,  laughed, 
and  looked  first  at  her  own  clothes  and  then  in  True's  face,  to 
see  what  he  would  think  of  her  appearance. 

"  Well,  I  declare ! "  said  he,  lifting  her  up  in  his  arms  and 
carrying  her  nearer  to  the  light;  "little  folks  do  look  famous! 
New  gown,  apron,  shoes!  —  got  'em  all  on!  And  who  fixed 
your  hair1?  My,  you  ain't  none  too  handsome,  sartain,  but  you 
do  look  famous  nice !  " 

"Mrs.  Sullivan  dressed  me  all  up,  and  brushed  my  hair; 
and  more  too  —  don't  you  see  what  else  she  has  done?" 

True  followed  Gerty 's  eyes  as  they  wandered  around  the 


28  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

room.  He  looked  amazed  enough  to  satisfy  her  anticipations, 
great  as  they  had  been;  and  no  wonder.  He  had  been  gone 
since  morning,  and  things  had  indeed  undergone  a  transforma 
tion.  Woman's  hands  had  evidently  been  at  work,  clearing 
up  and  setting  to  rights. 

Until  Gerty  came  to  live  with  True,  his  home  had  never 
been  subjected  to  female  intrusion.  Living  wholly  by  himself, 
and  entertaining  scarcely  any  visitors,  it  had  been  his  habit  to 
make  himself  comfortable  in  his  own  way,  utterly  regardless  of 
appearances.  In  his  humble  apartment  sweeping-day  came  but 
seldom,  and  spring  cleaning  was  unknown.  Two  large  win 
dows,  facing  the  yard,  were  treated  with  great  injustice,  the 
cheerful  light  they  were  capable  of  affording  being  half  obscured 
by  dirt  and  smoke.  The  corners  of  the  ceiling  were  festooned 
with  cobwebs;  the  high,  broad  mantelpiece  had  accumulated 
a  curious  medley  of  things  useful  and  useless ;  while  there  was 
no  end  to  the  rubbish  that  had  collected  under  the  stove. 
Then  the  furniture,  some  of  which  was  very  good,  was  adjusted 
in  the  most  inconvenient  manner,  and  in  a  way  to  turn  the  size 
of  the  room  to  the  least  possible  advantage.  During  Gerty 's 
illness,  a  bed  made  up  on  the  floor  for  True's  use,  and  the 
various  articles  which  had  been  required  in  her  sick-room,  had 
increased  the  clutter  to  such  an  extent  that  one  almost  needed 
a  pilot  to  conduct  him  in  safety  through  the  apartment. 

Now,  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  the  soul  of  neatness.  Her  rooms 
were  like  wax-work.  Her  own  dress  was  almost  quaker-like  in 
its  extreme  simplicity,  and  freedom  from  the  least  speck  or 
stain.  No  one  could  meet  her  old  father,  or  her  young  son, 
even  in  their  working-dress,  without  perceiving  at  once  the  evi 
dence  of  a  careful  daughter  and  mother's  handiwork.  It  was 
to  nurse  Gerty,  and  take  care  of  her  in  True's  absence,  that 
she  first  entered  a  room  so  much  the  reverse  of  her  own ;  and  it 
is  not  easy  to  appreciate  the  degree  in  which  the  virtue  and 
charity  of  her  so  doing  was  enhanced,  unless  one  can  realize 
how  painful  the  contrast  was  to  her,  and  how  excessively  an 
noying  she  found  it  to  spend  sometimes  a  whole  afternoon  in 
a  room  which,  as  she  expressed  herself  afterwards  at  home,  it 
would  have  been  a  real  pleasure  to  her  to  clear  up  and  put  to 
rights,  if  it  were  only  to  see  how  it  would  look,  and  whether 
anybody  would  recognize  it.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  a  little  bit  of 
a  woman,  but  had  more  capability  and  energy  than  could  have 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  29 

been  found  in  any  one  among  twenty  others  twice  her  size. 
She  really  pitied  those  whose  home  was  such  a  mass  of  confu 
sion;  felt  sure  that  they  could  not  be  happy;  and  inwardly 
determined,  as  soon  as  Gerty  got  well,  to  exert  herself  in  the 
cause  of  cleanliness  and  order,  which  was  in  her  eyes  the  cause 
of  virtue  and  happiness,  so  completely  did  she  identify  outward 
neatness  and  purity  with  inward  peace.  She  pondered  in  her 
own  mind  how  she  could  broach  the  subject  of  a  renovation  in 
his  affairs  to  True  himself,  without  wounding  his  feelings;  for 
she  was  herself  so  sensitive  on  a  point  of  neatness  that  she 
imagined  he  must  be  somewhat  the  same,  —  and  the  little 
woman,  being  as  tender-hearted  as  she  was  tidy,  would  not 
have  mortified  him  for  the  world,  —  when  a  mode  of  action  was 
suggested  to  her  by  Gerty  herself. 

On  the  day  previous  to  that  on  which  the  great  cleaning 
operations  took  place,  Gerty  was  observed  by  Mrs.  Sullivan 
standing  in  the  passage  near  her  door,  and  looking  shyly  but 
wistfully  in. 

"Come  in,  Gerty,"  said  the  kind  little  woman;  "come  in 
and  see  me.  Here,"  added  she,  seeing  how  timid  the  child 
felt  about  intruding  herself  into  a  strange  room;  "you  may  sit 
up  here  by  the  table,  and  see  me  iron.  This  is  your  own  little 
dress.  I  am  smoothing  it  out,  and  then  your  things  will  all 
be  done.  You  '11  be  glad  of  some  new  clothes,  sha'n't  you?  " 

"Very  glad,  marm, "  said  Gerty.  "Am  I  to  take  them  away, 
and  keep  them  all  myself  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"I  don't  know  where  I  '11  put  'em  all;  there  ain't  no  nice 
place  in  our  room,  — at  least,  no  very  nice  place,"  said  Gerty, 
glancing  with  admiration  at  the  open  drawer,  in  which  Mrs. 
Sullivan  was  now  placing  the  little  dress,  adding  it  to  a  pile 
of  neatly  folded  garments. 

"  Why,  part  of  them,  you  know,  you  '11  be  wearing, "  said  Mrs. 
Sullivan;  "and  we  must  find  some  good  place  for  the  rest." 

"You've  got  good  places  for  things,"  said  Gerty,  looking 
round  the  room;  "this  is  a  beautiful  room,  isn't  it?  " 

"Why,  it  isn't  very  different  from  Mr.  Flint's.  It's  just 
about  the  same  size,  and  two  front  windows  like  his.  My  cup 
board  is  the  best;  yours  is  only  a  three-cornered  one;  but 
that 's  about  all  the  difference." 

"0,   but  then  yours  don't  look  one   bit  like   ours.     You 


30  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

have  n't  got  any  bed  here,  and  all  the  chairs  stand  in  a  row, 
and  the  table  shines,  and  the  floor  is  so  clean,  and  the  stove  is 
new,  and  the  sun  comes  in  so  bright !  Oil  wish  our  room 
was  like  this!  I  shouldn't  think  ours  was  more  than  half  as 
big,  either.  Why,  Uncle  True  stumbled  over  the  tongs,  this 
morning,  and  he  said  there  wasn't  room  there  to  swing  a  cat." 

"  Where  were  the  tongs  ? "  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"About  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  marm." 

"Well,  you  see  I  don't  keep  things  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  I  think,  if  your  room  were  all  cleaned  up,  and  places 
found  for  everything,  it  would  look  almost  as  well  as  mine." 

"I  wish  it  could  be  fixed  up  nice,"  said  Gerty;  "but  what 
could  be  done  with  those  beds  ? " 

"  I '  ve  been  thinking  about  that.  There  's  that  little  pantry, 
-TT-  or  bathing-room,  I  think  it  must  have  been  once,  when  this 
house  was  new,  and  rich  people  lived  in  it;  that 's  large  enough 
to  hold  a  small  bedstead  and  a  chair  or  two;  'twould  be  quite 
a  comfortable  little  chamber  for  you.  There  's  nothing  in  it 
but  rubbish,  that  might  just  as  well  be  thrown  away,  or,  if  it 
were  good  for  anything,  put  in  the  shed." 

"0,  that'll  be  nice!  "said  Gerty;  "then  Uncle  True  can 
have  his  bed  back  again,  and  I  '11  sleep  on  the  floor  in  there." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan;  "it  won't  be  necessary  for  you 
to  sleep  on  the  floor.  I  've  got  a  very  good  little  cross-legged 
bedstead  that  my  Willie  slept  on  when  he  lived  at  home;  and 
I  will  send  it  to  you,  if  you  '11  try  to  take  good  care  of  it,  and 
of  everything  else  that  is  put  into  your  room." 

"  0,  I  will, "  said  Gerty.  —  "  But  can  1 1 "  added  she,  hesitat 
ing,  "do  you  think  I  can?  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything." 

"You  never  have  been  taught  to  do  anything,  my  child;  but 
a  girl  eight  years  old  can  do  a  great  many  things,  if  she  is  pa 
tient  and  tries  hard  to  learn.  I  could  teach  you  to  do  a  great 
deal  that  would  be  useful,  and  that  would  help  your  Uncle 
True  very  much." 

"What  could  I  do?" 

"  You  could  sweep  the  room  up  every  day ;  you  could  make 
the  beds,  after  a  fashion,  with  a  little  help  in  turning  them ; 
you  could  set  the  table,  toast  the  bread,  and  wash  the  dishes. 
Perhaps  you  would  not  do  these  things  in  the  best  manner  at 
first ;  but  you  would  keep  improving,  and  by  and  by  get  to  be 
quite  a  nice  little  housekeeper." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  31 

"  0,  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  Uncle  True ! "  said 
Gerty;  "but  how  could  I  ever  begin?  " 

"In  the  first  place,  you  must  have  things  cleaned  up  for  you. 
If  I  thought  Mr.  Flint  would  like  it,  I  'd  get  Kate  McCarty  to 
come  in  some  day  and  help  us;  and  I  think  we  could  make  a 
great  improvement  in  his  home." 

"0,  I  know  he'd  like  it,"  said  Gerty;  "'twould  be  grand! 
May  I  help?" 

"Yes,  you  may  do  what  you  can;  but  Kate '11  be  the  best 
hand;  she  's  strong,  and  knows  how  to  do  cleaning  very  well." 

"Who's  she?"  said  Gerty. 

"Kate?  —  She's  Mrs.  McCarty's  daughter,  in  the  next 
house.  Mr.  Flint  does  them  many  a  good  turn,  —  saws  wood, 
and  so  on.  They  do  most  of  his  washing;  but  they  can't  half 
pay  him  all  the  kindness  he  's  done  that  family.  Kate  's  a 
clever  girl;  she  '11  be  glad  to  come  and  work  for  him,  any  day. 
I '11  ask  her." 

"  Will  she  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Perhaps  she  will." 

"Uncle  True 's  going  to  be  gone  all  day  to-morrow,"  said 
Gerty;  "he  's  going  to  get  in  Mr.  Eustace's  coal.  Wouldn't  it 
be  a  good  time  ?  " 

"  Very,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan.  " I  '11  try  and  get  Kate  to  come 
to-morrow." 

Kate  came.  The  room  was  thoroughly  cleaned,  and  put  it. 
complete  order.  Gerty 's  new  clothes  were  delivered  over  to 
her  own  keeping;  she  was  neatly  dressed  in  one  suit,  the  other 
placed  in  a  little  chest  which  was  found  in  the  pantry,  and 
which  accommodated  her  small  wardrobe  very  well. 

It  was  the  result  of  all  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  Kate's,  and  Gerty 's 
combined  labor  which  called  forth  True's  astonishment  on  his 
return  from  his  work;  and  the  pleasure  he  manifested  made 
the  day  a  memorable  one  in  Gerty 's  life,  one  to  be  marked  in 
her  memory  as  long  as  she  lived,  as  being  the  first  in  which 
she  had  known  that  happiness  —  perhaps  the  highest  earth 
affords  —  of  feeling  that  she  had  been  instrumental  in  giving 
joy  to  another.  Not  that  Gerty 's  assistance  had  been  of  any 
great  value;  or  that  all  could  not  have  been  done  as  well,  or 
even  better,  if  she  had  been  where  Nan  Grant  always  put  her, 
—  out  of  the  way.  But  the  child  did  not  realize  that:  she 
had  been  one  of  the  laborers;  she  had  entered  heart  and  soul 


32  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

into  every  part  of  the  work;  wherever  she  had  been  allowed  to 
lend  a  helping  hand,  she  had  exerted  her  whole  strength.  She 
could  say,  with  truth,  "  We  did  it,  —  Mrs.  Sullivan,  Kate, 
and  J." 

None  but  a  loving  heart,  like  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  would  have 
understood  and  sympathized  in  the  feeling  which  made  Gerty 
so  eager  to  help.  But  she  did,  and  allotted  to  her  many  little 
services,  which  the  child  felt  herself  more  blessed  in  being 
permitted  to  perform  than  she  would  have  done  at  almost  any 
gift  or  favor  that  could  have  been  bestowed  upon  her. 

She  led  True  about  to  show  him  how  judiciously  and  ingen 
iously  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  contrived  to  make  the  most  of  the 
room  and  the  furniture ;  how,  by  moving  the  bed  into  a  deep 
recess,  which  was  just  wide  enough  for  it,  she  had  reserved  the 
whole  square  area  and  made,  as  True  declared,  a  parlor  of  it. 
It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  made  to  believe  that  half 
his  property  had  not  been  spirited  away,  so  incomprehensible 
was  it  to  him  that  so  much  additional  space  and  comfort  could 
be  acquired  by  a  little  system  and  order. 

But  his  astonishment  and  Gerty's  delight  reached  their  climax 
when  she  introduced  him  into  the  former  lumber-closet,  now 
transformed  into  a  really  snug  and  comfortable  bedroom. 

"Well,  I  declare!  Well,  I  declare!"  was  all  the  old  man 
could  seem  to  say.  He  sat  down  beside  the  stove,  now  pol 
ished  and  made,  as  Gerty  declared,  new,  just  like  Mrs.  Sul 
livan's,  rubbed  his  hands  together,  for  they  were  cold  with 
being  out  in  the  frosty  evening,  and  then,  spreading  them  in 
front  of  the  fire,  took  a  general  view  of  his  reformed  domicile, 
and  of  Gerty,  who,  according  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  careful  instruc 
tions,  was  preparing  to  set  the  table  and  toast  the  bread  for 
supper.  She  was  standing  on  a  chair,  taking  down  the  cups 
and  saucers  from  among  the  regular  rows  of  dishes  shining  in 
the  three-cornered  cupboard,  having  already  deposited  on  the 
lower  shelf,  where  she  could  reach  it  from  the  floor,  a  plate 
containing  some  smoothly  cut  slices  of  bread,  which  the 
thoughtful  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  prepared  for  her.  True  watched 
her  motions  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  indulged  in  a  short 
soliloquy.  "Mrs.  Sullivan  's  a  clever  woman,  sartain,  and 
they  've  made  my  old  house  here  complete,  and  Gerty  's  gettin' 
to  be  like  the  apple  of  my  eye,  and  I  'm  as  happy  a  man  as  —  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  33 


CHAPTER  VI 

Some  dream  that  they  can  silence,  when  they  will, 
The  storm  of  passion,  and  say  peace,  be  still  ! 

COWPER. 

HERE  True  was  interrupted.  Quick,  noisy  footsteps  in  the 
passage  were  followed  by  a  sudden  and  unceremonious  opening 
of  the  door. 

"Here,  Uncle  True,"  said  the  newcomer;  "here  's  your  pack 
age.  You  forgot  all  about  it,  I  guess;  and  I  forgot  it,  too, 
till  mother  saw  it  on  the  table,  where  I  'd  laid  it  down.  I 
was  so  taken  up  with  just  coming  home,  you  know." 

"Of  course,  — of  course!"  said  True.  "Much  obleeged  to 
you,  Willie,  for  fetchin'  it  for  me.  It 's  pretty  brittle  stuff 
it 's  made  of,  and  most  like  I  should  'a'  smashed  it,  'fore  I  got 
it  home." 

"What  is  it?  —  I  've  been  wondering." 

"Why,  it 's  a  little  knickknack  I  've  brought  home  for  Gerty 
here,  that  —  " 

"  Willie !  Willie !  "  called  Mrs.  Sullivan  from  the  opposite 
room,  "have  you  been  to  tea,  dear?" 

"  No,  indeed,  mother ;  —  have  you  ?  " 

"Why,  yes;  but  I  '11  get  you  some." 

"No,  no!"  said  True;  "stay  and  take  tea  with  us,  Willie; 
take  tea  here,  my  boy.  My  little  Gerty  is  makin'  some  famous 
toast,  and  I  '11  put  the  tea  a-steepin*  presently." 

"So  I  will,"  said  Willie;  "I  should  like  to,  first-rate.  No 
matter  about  any  supper  for  me,  mother;  I'm  going  to  have 
my  tea  here,  with  Uncle  True.  Come,  now,  let 's  see  what 's 
in  the  bundle;  but  first  I  want  to  see  little  Gerty;  mother's 
been  telling  me  about  her.  Where  is  she  1  —  has  she  got  well  1 
She  's  been  very  sick,  hasn't  she?  " 

"0,  yes,  she  's  nicely  now,"  said  True.  "Here,  Gerty,  look 
here !  Why,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"There  she  is,  hiding  up  behind  the  settle,"  said  Willie, 
laughing.  "  She  ain't  afraid  of  me,  is  she?  " 


34  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  as  she  was  shy,"  said  True.  "You 
silly  little  girl,"  added  he,  going  towards  her,  "come  out  here, 
and  see  Willie.  This  is  Willie  Sullivan." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  said  Gerty. 

"Don't  want  to  see  Willie!"  said  True;  "why,  you  don't 
know  what  you  're  sayin'.  Willie  's  the  best  boy  that  ever  was; 
I  spect  you  and  he  '11  be  great  friends,  by  and  by." 

"He  won't  like  me,"  said  Gerty;  "I  know  he  won't!" 

"Why  sha'n't  I  like  you?"  said  Willie,  approaching  the 
corner  where  Gerty  had  hid  herself.  Her  face  was  covered 
with  her  hands,  according  to  her  usual  fashion  when  anything 
distressed  her.  "I  guess  I  shall  like  you  first-rate,  when  I 
see  you." 

He  stooped  down  as  he  spoke,  for  he  was  much  taller  than 
Gerty,  and,  taking  her  hands  directly  down  from  her  face  and 
holding  them  tight  in  his  own,  he  fixed  his  eyes  full  upon  her, 
and,  nodding  pleasantly,  said,  — 

"  How  do  do,  Cousin  Gerty  —  how  do  do  1 " 

"I  ain't  your  cousin! "  said  Gerty. 

"Yes  you  are,"  said  Willie  decidedly;  "Uncle  True  's  your 
uncle,  and  mine  too;  —  so  we 're  cousins — don't  you  see?  — 
and  I  want  to  get  acquainted." 

Gerty  could  not  resist  Willie's  good-natured  words  and  man 
ner.  She  suffered  him  to  draw  her  out  of  the  corner,  and 
towards  the  lighter  end  of  the  room.  As  she  came  near  the 
lamp,  she  tried  to  free  her  hands,  in  order  to  cover  her  face  up 
again ;  but  Willie  would  not  let  her,  and,  attracting  her  atten 
tion  to  the  unopened  package,  and  exciting  her  curiosity  as  to 
what  it  might  contain,  he  succeeded  in  diverting  her  thoughts 
from  herself,  so  that  in  a  few  minutes  she  seemed  quite  at  her 
ease. 

"There,  Uncle  True  says  it 's  for  you,"  said  Willie;  "and  I 
can't  think  what  'tis,  can  you?  Feel  —  it 's  hard  as  can  be." 

Gerty  felt,  and  looked  up  wonderingly  in  True's  face. 

"Undo  it,  Willie,"  said  True. 

Willie  produced  a  knife,  cut  the  string,  took  off  the  paper,  and 
disclosed  one  of  those  white  plaster  images,  so  familiar  to  every 
one,  representing  the  little  Samuel  in  an  attitude  of  devotion. 

"  0,  how  pretty ! "  exclaimed  Gerty,  full  of  delight. 

"Why  didn't  I  think?  "  said  Willie;  "I  might  have  known 
what  'twas,  by  the  feeling." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  35 

"  Why !  did  you  ever  see  it  before  1 "  said  Gerty. 

"Not  this  same  one;  but  I  Jve  seen  lots  just  like  it." 

"Have  you ?  "  said  Gerty.  "I  never  did.  I  think  it 's  the 
beautifullest  thing  that  ever  was.  Uncle  True,  did  you  say  it 
was  for  me  ?  Where  did  you  get  it  1 " 

"  It  was  by  an  accident  I  got  it.  A  few  minutes  before  I 
met  you,  Willie,  I  was  stoppin'  at  the  corner  to  light  my  lamp, 
when  I  saw  one  of  those  furren  boys  with  a  sight  o'  these  sort 
of  things,  and  some  black  ones  too,  all  set  up  on  a  board,  and 
he  was  walkin'  with  'em  a-top  of  his  head.  I  was  just  a-won- 
derin'  how  he  kept  'em  there,  when  he  hit  the  board  agin  my 
lamp-post,  and,  the  first  thing  I  knew,  whack  they  all  went! 
He  'd  spilt  'em  every  one.  Lucky  enough  for  him,  there  was 
a  great  bank  of  soft  snow  close  to  the  sidewalk,  and  the  most 
of  'em  fell  into  that,  and  wasn't  hurt.  Some  few  went  on  to 
the  bricks,  and  were  smashed.  Well,  I  kind  o'  pitied  the 
feller;  for  it  was  late,  and  I  thought  like  enough  he  hadn't 
had  much  luck  sellin'  of  'em,  to  have  so  many  left  on  his 
hands  —  " 

"On  his  head,  you  mean,"  said  Willie. 

"Yes,  Master  Willie,  or  on  the  snow,"  said  True;  "any  way 
you  're  a  mind  to  have  it." 

"And  I  know  what  you  did,  Uncle  True,  just  as  well  as  if 
I'd  seen  you,"  said  Willie;  "you  set  your  ladder  and  lantern 
right  down,  and  went  to  work  helping  him  pick  'em  all  up, 
—  that 's  just  what  you  'd  be  sure  to  do  for  anybody.  I  hope, 
if  ever  you  get  into  trouble,  some  of  the  folks  you  've  helped 
will  be  by  to  make  return." 

"This  feller,  Willie,  didn't  wait  for  me  to  get  into  trouble; 
he  made  return  right  off.  When  they  were  all  set  right,  he 
bowed,  and  scraped,  and  touched  his  hat  to  me,  as  if  I  'd  been 
the  biggest  gentleman  in  the  land.  Talkin',  too,  he  was  all  the 
time,  though  I  couldn't  make  out  a  word  of  his  lingo;  and 
then  he  insisted  on  my  takin'  one  o'  the  figur's.  I  wan't 
a-goin'  to,  for  I  didn't  want  it;  but  I  happened  to  think  little 
Gerty  might  like  it." 

"0,  I  shall  like  it!"  said  Gerty.  "I  shall  like  it  better 
than  —  no,  not  better,  but  almost  as  well  as  my  kitten;  not 
quite  as  well  because  that  was  alive,  and  this  is  n't;  but  almost. 
O,  ain't  he  a  cunning  little  boy  ?  " 

True,  finding  that  Gerty  was  wholly  taken  up  with  the  inv 


36  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

age,  walked  away  and  began  to  get  the  tea,  leaving  the  two 
children  to  entertain  each  other. 

"You  must  take  care  and  not  break  it,  Gerty,"  said  Willie. 
"We  had  a  Samuel  once,  just  like  it,  in  the  shop;  and  I 
dropped  it  out  of  my  hand  on  to  the  counter,  and  broke  it  into 
a  million  pieces." 

"What  did  you  call  it? "  said  Gerty. 

"A  Samuel;  they  're  all  Samuels." 

"  What  are  Sammies  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"Why,  that 's  the  name  of  the  child  they  're  taken  for." 

"What  do  you  s'pose  he  's  sittin'  on  his  knee  for? " 

Willie  laughed.      "Why,  don't  you  know?  "  said  he. 

"No,"  said  Gerty;  "what  is  he?" 

"He's  praying,"  said  Willie. 

"Is  that  what  he  's  got  his  eyes  turned  up  for,  too?" 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  he  looks  up  to  heaven  when  he  prays. " 

"Up  to  where?" 

"To  heaven." 

Gerty  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
eyes  were  turned,  then  at  the  figure.  She  seemed  very  much 
dissatisfied  and  puzzled. 

"Why,  Gerty,"  said  Willie,  "I  shouldn't  think  you  knew 
what  praying  was." 

"I  don't,"  said  Gerty;  "tell  me." 

"Don't  you  ever  pray,  —  pray  to  God  ?  " 

" No  /  don't.  —  Who  is  God  ?     Where  is  God  ?  " 

Willie  looked  inexpressibly  shocked  at  Gerty 's  ignorance, 
and  answered  reverently,  "God  is  in  heaven,  Gerty." 

"I  don't  know  where  that  is,"  said  Gerty.  "I  believe  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  did,"  said  Wrillie.  "I  believe 
heaven  is  up  in  the  sky ;  but  my  Sunday-school  teacher  says, 
4  Heaven  is  anywhere  where  goodness  is, '  or  some  such  thing, " 
he  said. 

"Are  the  stars  in  heaven? "  said  Gerty. 

"They  look  so,  don't  they?"  said  Willie.  "They're  in 
the  sky,  where  I  always  used  to  think  heaven  was." 

"I  should  like  to  go  to  heaven,"  said  Gerty. 

"Perhaps,  if  you  're  good,  you  will  go,  some  time." 

"Can't  any  but  good  folks  go? " 

"No." 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  37 

"Then  I  can't  ever  go,"  said  Gerty  mournfully. 

"Why  not?"  said  Willie;  "ain't  you  good? " 

"O,  no!  I'm  very  bad." 

"What  a  queer  child!"  said  Willie.  "What  makes  you 
think  yourself  so  very  bad? ;? 

"0!  I  am,"  said  Gerty,  in  a  very  sad  tone;  "I  'm  the  worst 
of  all.  I '  m  the  worst  child  in  the  world. " 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"Everybody.  Nan  Grant  says  so,  and  she  says  everybody 
thinks  so;  I  know  it,  too,  myself." 

"  Is  Nan  Grant  the  cross  old  woman  you  used  to  live  with  ? " 

"  Yes.      How  did  you  know  she  was  cross  ?  " 

"  0,  my  mother  's  been  telling  me  about  her.  Well,  I  want 
to  know  if  she  didn't  send  you  to  school,  or  teach  you  any 
thing?" 

Gerty  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  what  lots  you  've  got  to  learn!  What  did  you  used 
to  do,  when  you  lived  there  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Never  did  anything,  and  don't  know  anything;  my  gra 
cious  ! " 

"Yes,  I  do  know  one  thing,"  said  Gerty.  "I  know  how  to 
toast  bread ;  —  your  mother  taught  me;  —  she  let  me  toast  some 
by  her  fire." 

As  she  spoke,  she  thought  of  her  own  neglected  toast,  and 
turned  towards  the  stove ;  but  she  was  too  late,  —  the  toast 
was  made,  the  supper  ready,  and  True  was  just  putting  it  on 
the  table. 

"0,  Uncle  True,"  said  she,  "I  meant  to  get  the  tea." 

"I  know  it,"  said  True,  "but  it's  no  matter;  you  can  get 
it  to-morrow." 

The  tears  came  into  Gerty 's  eyes;  —  she  looked  very  much 
disappointed,  but  said  nothing.  They  all  sat  down  to  supper. 
Willie  put  the  Samuel  in  the  middle  of  the  table  for  a  centre 
ornament,  and  told  so  many  funny  stories,  and  said  so  many 
pleasant  things,  that  Gerty  laughed  heartily,  forgot  that  she  did 
not  make  the  toast  herself,  forgot  her  sadness,  her  shyness,  even 
her  ugliness  and  wickedness,  and  showed  herself,  for  once,  a 
merry  child.  After  tea,  she  sat  beside  Willie  on  the  great 
settle,  and,  in  her  peculiar  way,  and  with  many  odd  expressions 
and  remarks,  gave  him  a  description  of  her  life  at  Nan  Grant's, 


38  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

winding  up  with  a  touching  account  of  the  death  of  her  kit 
ten. 

The  two  children  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  become  as  good 
friends  as  True  could  possibly  wish.  True  himself  sat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  stove,  smoking  his  pipe;  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  children,  and  his  ears  drinking  in 
all  their  conversation.  He  was  no  restraint  upon  them.  So 
simple-hearted  and  sympathizing  a  being,  so  ready  to  be  amused 
and  pleased,  so  slow  to  blame  or  disapprove,  could  never  be 
any  check  upon  the  gayety  or  freedom  of  the  youngest,  most 
careless  spirit.  He  laughed  when  they  laughed ;  seemed  soberly 
satisfied,  and  took  long  whiffs  at  his  pipe,  when  they  talked 
quietly  and  sedately;  ceased  smoking  entirely,  letting  his  pipe 
rest  on  his  knee  and  secretly  wiping  away  a  tear,  when  Gerty 
recounted  her  childish  griefs.  He  had  heard  the  story  before, 
and  he  cried  then.  He  often  heard  it  afterwards,  but  never 
without  crying. 

After  Gerty  had  closed  her  tale  of  sorrows,  which  was  fre 
quently  interrupted  by  Willie's  ejaculations  of  condolence  or 
pity,  she  sat  for  a  moment  without  speaking;  then,  becoming 
excited,  as  her  ungoverned  and  easily  roused  nature  dwelt  upon 
its  wrongs,  she  burst  forth  in  a  very  different  tone  from  that 
in  which  she  had  been  speaking,  and  commenced  uttering  the 
most  bitter  invectives  against  Nan  Grant,  making  use  of  many 
a  rough  and  coarse  term,  such  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
hear  used  by  the  ill-bred  people  with  whom  she  had  lived. 
The  child's  language  expressed  unmitigated  hatred,  and  even 
a  hope  of  future  revenge.  True  looked  worried  and  troubled 
at  hearing  her  talk  so  angrily.  Since  he  brought  her  home  he 
had  never  witnessed  such  a  display  of  temper,  and  had  fondly 
believed  that  she  would  always  be  as  quiet  and  gentle  as  during 
her  illness  and  the  few  weeks  subsequent  to  it.  True's  own 
disposition  was  so  placid,  amiable,  and  forgiving  that  he  could 
not  imagine  that  any  one,  and  especially  a  little  child,  should 
long  retain  feelings  of  anger  and  bitterness.  Gerty  had  shown 
herself  so  mild  and  patient  since  she  had  been  with  him,  so 
submissive  to  his  wishes,  so  anxious  even  to  forestall  them, 
that  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  dread  any  difficulty  in 
the  management  of  the  child.  Now,  however,  as  he  observed 
her  flashing  eyes,  and  noticed  the  doubling  of  her  little  fist,  as 
she  menaced  Nan  with  her  future  wrath,  he  had  an  undefined, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  39 

half-formed  presentiment  of  coming  trouble  in  the  control  of 
his  little  charge ;  a  feeling  almost  of  alarm,  lest  he  had  under 
taken  what  he  could  never  perform.  For  the  moment  she 
ceased,  in  his  eyes,  to  he  the  pet  and  plaything  he  had  hitherto 
considered  her.  He  saw  in  her  something  which  needed  a 
check,  and  felt  himself  unfit  to  apply  it. 

And  no  wonder.  He  was  totally  unfit  to  cope  with  a  spirit 
like  Gerty's.  It  was  true  he  possessed  over  her  one  mighty 
influence,  —  her  strong  affection  for  him,  which  he  could  not 
doubt.  It  was  that  which  made  her  so  submissive  and  patient 
in  her  sickness,  so  grateful  for  his  care  and  kindness,  so  anxious 
to  do  something  in  return.  It  was  that  deep  love  for  her  first 
friend,  which,  never  wavering,  and  growing  stronger  to  the 
last,  proved,  in  after  years,  a  noble  motive  for  exertion,  a  wor 
thy  incentive  to  virtue.  It  was  that  love,  fortified  and  illu 
mined  by  a  higher  light,  which  came  in  time  to  sanctify  it,  that 
gave  her,  while  yet  a  mere  girl,  a  woman's  courage,  a  woman's 
strength  of  heart  and  self-denial.  It  was  that  which  cheered 
the  old  man's  latter  years,  and  shed  joy  on  his  dying-bed. 

But  for  the  present  it  was  not  enough.  The  kindness  she 
had  received  for  the  few  weeks  past  had  completely  softened 
Gerty's  heart  towards  her  benefactors;  but  the  effect  of  eight 
years'  mismanagement,  ill  treatment,  and  want  of  all  judicious 
discipline,  could  not  be  done  away  in  that  short  time.  Her 
unruly  nature  could  not  be  so  suddenly  quelled,  her  better  capa 
bilities  called  into  action. 

The  plant  that  for  years  has  been  growing  distorted,  and 
dwelling  in  a  barren  spot,  deprived  of  light  and  nourishment, 
withered  in  its  leaves  and  blighted  in  its  fruit,  cannot  at  once 
recover  from  so  cruel  a  blast.  Transplanted  to  another  soil,  it 
must  be  directed  in  the  right  course,  nourished  with  care  and 
warmed  with  Heaven's  light,  ere  it  can  recover  from  the  shock 
occasioned  by  its  early  neglect,  and  find  strength  to  expand  its 
flowers  and  ripen  its  fruit. 

So  with  little  Gerty ;  —  a  new  direction  must  be  given  to  her 
ideas,  new  nourishment  to  her  mind,  new  light  to  her  soul,  ere 
the  higher  purposes  for  which  she  was  created  could  be  accom 
plished  in  her. 

Something  of  this  True  felt,  and  it  troubled  him.  He  did 
not,  however,  attempt  to  check  the  child.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  and  so  did  nothing. 


40  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Willie  tried  once  or  twice  to  stop  the  current  of  her  abusive 
language;  but  soon  desisted,  for  she  did  not  pay  the  least  at 
tention  to  him.  He  could  not  help  smiling  at  her  childish 
wrath,  nor  could  he  resist  sympathizing  with  her  in  a  degree, 
and  almost  wishing  he  could  have  a  brush  with  Kan  himself, 
and  express  his  opinion  of  her  character  in  one  or  two  hard 
knocks.  But  he  had  been  well  brought  up  by  his  gentle 
mother,  was  conscious  that  Gerty  was  exhibiting  a  very  hot 
temper,  and  began  to  understand  what  made  everybody  think 
her  so  bad. 

After  Gerty  had  railed  about  Nan  a  little  while,  she  stopped 
of  her  own  accord ;  though  an  unpleasant  look  remained  on  her 
countenance,  one  of  her  old  looks,  that  it  was  a  pity  should 
return,  but  which  always  did  when  she  got  into  a  passion.  It 
soon  passed  away,  however,  and  when,  a  little  later  in  the  even 
ing,  Mrs.  Sullivan  appeared  at  the  door,  Gerty  looked  bright 
and  happy,  listened  with  evident  delight  while  True  uttered 
warm  expressions  of  thanks  for  the  labor  which  had  been  un 
dertaken  in  his  behalf,  and  when  Willie  went  away  with  his 
mother,  said  her  good-night  and  asked  him  to  come  again  so 
pleasantly,  and  her  eyes  looked  so  bright  as  she  stood  holding 
on  to  True's  hand  in  the  doorway,  that  Willie  said,  as  soon  as 
they  were  out  of  hearing,  "She  's  a  queer  little  thing,  ain't  she, 
mother?  But  I  kind  o'  like  her." 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  41 


CHAPTER   VII 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

MONTGOMERY. 

IT  would  have  been  hard  to  find  two  children,  both  belong 
ing  to  the  poorer  class,  whose  situations  in  life  had,  thus  far, 
presented  a  more  complete  contrast  than  those  of  Gerty  and 
Willie.  With  Gerty 's  experiences  the  reader  is  somewhat 
'acquainted.  A  neglected  orphan,  she  had  received  little  of 
that  care,  and  still  less  of  that  love,  which  Willie  had  always 
enjoyed.  Mrs.  Sullivan's  husband  was  an  intelligent  country 
clergyman;  but  as  he  died  when  Willie  was  a  baby,  leaving 
very  little  property  for  the  support  of  his  family,  the  widow 
went  home  to  her  father,  taking  her  child  with  her.  The  old 
man  needed  his  daughter;  for  death  had  made  sad  inroads  in 
his  household  since  she  left  it,  and  he  was  alone. 

From  that  time  the  three  had  lived  together  in  humble  com 
fort;  for,  though  poor,  industry  and  frugality  secured  them 
from  want.  Willie  was  his  mother's  pride,  her  hope,  her  con 
stant  thought.  She  spared  herself  no  toil  or  care  to  provide 
for  his  physical  comfort,  his  happiness,  and  his  growth  in 
knowledge  and  virtue. 

It  would  have  been  strange  enough  if  she  had  not  been  proud 
of  a  boy  whose  uncommon  beauty,  winning  disposition,  and 
early  evidences  of  a  manly  and  noble  nature  won  him  friends 
even  among  strangers.  He  had  been  a  handsome  child;  but 
there  was  that  observable  in  him,  now  that  he  had  nearly 
reached  his  thirteenth  year,  far  excelling  the  common  boyish 
beauty,  which  consists  merely  in  curly  hair,  dark  eyes,  and  rosy 
cheeks.  It  was  his  broad,  open  forehead,  the  clearness  and 
calmness  of  his  full  gray  eye,  the  expressive  mouth,  so  deter 
mined  and  yet  so  mild,  the  well-developed  figure  and  ruddy  com 
plexion,  proclaiming  high  health,  which  gave  promise  of  power 


42  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

to  the  future  man.  No  one  could  have  been  in  the  boy's  com 
pany  half  an  hour  without  loving  and  admiring  him.  He  had 
naturally  a  warm-hearted,  affectionate  disposition,  which  his 
mother's  love  and  the  world's  smiles  had  fostered;  an  unusual 
flow  of  animal  spirits,  tempered  by  a  natural  politeness  towards 
his  elders  and  superiors ;  a  quick  apprehension ;  a  ready  com 
mand  of  language;  a  sincere  sympathy  in  others'  pleasures  and 
pains;  in  fine,  one  of  those  genial  natures  that  wins  hearts  one 
knows  not  how.  He  was  fond  of  study,  and  until  his  twelfth 
year  his  mother  kept  him  constantly  at  school.  The  sons  of 
poor  parents  have,  in  our  large  cities,  almost  every  educational 
advantage  that  can  be  obtained  by  wealth;  and  Willie,  having 
an  excellent  capacity,  and  being  constantly  encouraged  and 
exhorted  by  his  mother  to  improve  his  opportunities  to  the 
utmost,  had  attained  a  degree  of  proficiency  quite  unusual  at 
his  age. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old,  he  had  an  excellent  oppor 
tunity  to  enter  into  the  service  of  an  apothecary,  who  did  an 
extensive  business  in  the  city,  and  wanted  a  boy  to  assist  in  his 
store.  The  wages  that  Mr.  Bray  offered  were  not  great,  but 
there  was  the  hope  of  an  increased  salary;  and,  at  any  rate, 
situated  as  Willie  was,  it  was  not  a  chance  to  be  overlooked. 
Fond  as  he  was  of  his  books,  he  had  long  been  eager  to  be  at 
work,  helping  to  bear  the  burden  of  labor  in  the  family.  His 
mother  and  grandfather  assented  to  the  plan,  and  he  gladly 
accepted  Mr.  Bray's  proposals. 

He  was  sadly  missed  at  home;  for,  as  he  slept  at  the  store 
during  the  week,  he  rarely  had  much  leisure  to  make  even  a 
passing  visit  to  his  mother,  except  on  Saturday,  when  he  came 
home  at  night  and  passed  Sunday.  So  Saturday  night  was 
Mrs.  Sullivan's  happy  night,  and  the  Sabbath  became  a  more 
blessed  day  than  ever. 

When  Willie  reached  his  mother's  room  on  the  evening  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking,  he  sat  down  with  her  and  Mr. 
Cooper,  and  for  an  hour  conversation  was  brisk  with  them. 
Willie  never  came  home  that  he  had  not  a  great  deal  to  relate 
concerning  the  occurrences  of  the  week ;  many  a  little  anecdote 
to  tell;  many  a  circumstance  connected  with  the  shop,  the 
customers,  his  master  the  apothecary,  and  his  master's  family, 
with  whom  he  took  his  meals.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  interested 
in  everything  that  interested  Willie,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  43 

that  the  old  grandfather  was  more  entertained  by  the  boy  than 
he  was  willing  to  appear,  for  though  he  sat  with  his  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  and  did  not  seem  to  listen,  he  usually  heard  all  that 
was  said,  as  was  often  proved  afterwards  by  some  accidental 
reference  he  would  make  to  the  subject.  He  seldom  asked 
questions,  and  indeed  it  was  not  necessary,  for  Mrs.  Sullivan 
asked  enough  for  them  both.  He  seldom  made  comments,  but 
would  occasionally  utter  an  impatient  or  contemptuous  expres 
sion  regarding  individuals  or  the  world  in  general;  thereby 
evidencing  that  distrust  of  human  nature,  that  want  of  confi 
dence  in  men's  honesty  and  virtue,  which  formed,  as  we  have 
said,  a  marked  trait  in  the  old  man's  character.  Willie's  spirits 
would  then  receive  a  momentary  check ;  for  he  loved  and  trusted 
everybody,  and  his  grandfather's  words,  and  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  spoken,  were  a  damper  to  his  young  soul ;  but,  with 
the  elasticity  of  youth  and  a  gay  heart,  they  would  soon  re 
bound,  and  he  would  go  on  as  before.  Willie  did  not  fear  his 
grandfather,  who  had  never  been  severe  to  him,  never  having, 
indeed,  interfered  at  all  with  Mrs.  Sullivan's  management;  but 
he  sometimes  felt  chilled,  though  he  hardly  knew  why,  by  his 
want  of  sympathy  with  his  own  warm-heartedness.  On  the 
present  occasion,  the  conversation  having  turned  at  last  upon 
True  Flint  and  his  adopted  child,  Mr.  Cooper  had  been  un 
usually  bitter  and  satirical,  and,  as  he  took  his  lamp  to  go  to 
bed,  wound  up  with  remarking  that  he  knew  very  well  Gerty 
would  never  be  anything  but  a  trouble  to  Flint,  who  was  a 
fool  not  to  send  her  to  the  almshouse  at  once. 

There  was  a  pause  after  the  old  man  left  the  room;  then 
Willie  exclaimed,  "Mother,  what  makes  grandfather  hate 
folks  1 " 

"Why,  he  don't,  Willie." 

"I  don't  mean  exactly  hate, — I  don't  suppose  he  does 
that  quite  ;  but  he  don't  seem  to  think  a  great  deal  of  any 
body,  —  do  you  think  he  does  ?  " 

"0,  yes;  he  don't  show  it  much,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan;  "but 
he  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  Willie,  and  he  wouldn't  have 
anything  happen  to  me  for  the  world;  and  he  likes  Mr.  Flint, 
and  —  " 

"0,  yes,  I  know  that,  of  course;  I  don't  mean  that;  but 
he  doesn't  think  there  's  much  goodness  in  folks,  and  he  don't 
seem  to  think  anybody  's  going  to  turn  out  well,  and  —  " 


44  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"You  're  thinking  of  what  he  said  about  little  Gerty." 

"Well,  she  ain't  the  only  one.  That 's  what  made  me  speak 
of  it  now,  but  I  've  often  noticed  it  before,  particularly  since  I 
went  away  from  home,  and  am  only  here  once  a  week.  Now, 
you  know  I  think  everything  of  Mr.  Bray;  and  when  I  was 
telling  to-night  how  much  good  he  did,  and  how  kind  he  was 
to  old  Mrs.  Morris  and  her  sick  daughter,  grandfather  looked 
just  as  if  he  didn't  believe  it,  or  didn't  think  much  of  it, 
somehow." 

"0,  well,  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "you  mustn't  won 
der  much  at  that.  Grandpa  's  had  a  good  many  disappoint 
ments.  You  know  he  thought  everything  of  Uncle  Richard, 
and  there  was  no  end  to  the  trouble  he  had  with  him;  and 
there  was  Aunt  Sarah's  husband,  — he  seemed  to  be  such  a  fine 
fellow  when  Sally  married  him,  but  he  cheated  father  dread 
fully  at  last,  so  that  he  had  to  mortgage  his  house  in  High 
Street,  and  finally  give  it  up  entirely.  He  's  dead  now,  and 
I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  him;  but  he  didn't  prove 
what  we  expected,  and  it  broke  Sally's  heart,  I  think.  That 
was  a  dreadful  trial  to  father,  for  she  was  the  youngest,  and 
had  always  been  his  pet.  And,  just  after  that,  mother  was 
taken  down  with  her  death-stroke,  and  there  was  a  quack  doc 
tor  prescribed  for  her,  that  father  always  thought  did  her  more 
hurt  than  good.  0,  take  it  altogether,  he  's  had  a  great  deal 
to  make  him  look  on  the  dark  side  now;  but  you  mustn't 
mind  it,  Willie;  you  must  take  care  and  turn  out  well  your 
self,  my  son,  and  then  he  '11  be  proud  enough;  he  's  as  pleased 
as  he  can  be  when  he  hears  you  praised,  and  expects  great 
things  of  you,  one  of  these  days." 

Here  the  conversation  ended;  but  not  until  the  boy  had 
added  another  to  the  many  resolves  already  made,  that,  if  his 
health  and  strength  were  spared,  he  would  prove  to  his  grand 
father  that  hopes  were  not  always  deceitful,  and  that  fears  were 
sometimes  groundless. 

0 !  what  a  glorious  thing  it  is  for  a  youth  when  he  has  ever 
present  with  him  a  high,  a  noble,  an  unselfish  motive !  What 
an  incentive  is  it  to  exertion,  perseverance,  and  self-denial! 
What  a  force  to  urge  him  on  to  ever-increasing  efforts !  Fears 
that  would  otherwise  appall,  discouragements  that  would  dis 
hearten,  labors  that  would  weary,  obstacles  that  would  dismay, 
opposition  that  would  crush,  temptation  that  would  overcome, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  45 

all,  all  lie  disarmed  and  powerless,  when,  with  a  single-hearted 
and  worthy  aim,  he  struggles  for  the  victory ! 

And  so  it  is,  that  those  born  in  honor,  wealth,  and  luxury 
seldom  achieve  greatness.  They  were  not  born  for  labor;  and, 
without  labor,  nothing  that  is  worth  having  can  be  won.  Why 
will  they  riot  make  it  their  great  and  absorbing  motive  (a  wor 
thy  one  it  certainly  would  be)  to  overcome  the  disadvantages 
of  their  position,  and  make  themselves  great,  learned,  wise,  and 
good,  in  spite  of  those  riches,  that  honorable  birth,  that  oppor 
tunity  for  luxurious  sloth,  which  are,  in  reality,  to  the  clear- 
judging  eye  of  wise  men  and  angels,  their  deadliest  snare  ?  A 
motive  Willie  had  long  had.  His  grandfather  was  old,  his 
mother  weak,  and  both  poor.  He  must  be  the  staff  of  their 
old  age;  he  must  labor  for  their  support  and  comfort;  he  must 
do  more  ;  —  they  hoped  great  things  of  him ;  they  must  not  be 
disappointed.  He  did  not,  however,  while  arming  himself  for 
future  conflict  with  the  world,  forget  the  present,  but  sat  down 
and  learned  his  Sunday-school  lessons.  After  which,  accord 
ing  to  custom,  he  read  aloud  in  the  Bible;  and  then  Mrs.  Sul 
livan,  laying  her  hand  on  the  head  of  her  son,  offered  up  a 
simple,  heart-felt  prayer  for  the  boy, — one  of  those  mother's 
prayers,  which  the  child  listens  to  with  reverence  and  love,  and 
remembers  in  the  far-off  years ;  one  of  those  prayers  which  keep 
men  from  temptation,  and  deliver  them  from  evil. 

After  Willie  went  home  that  evening,  and  Gerty  was  left 
alone  with  True,  she  sat  on  a  low  stool  beside  him  for  some 
time  without  speaking.  Her  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  the 
white  image  which  lay  in  her  lap;  that  her  little  mind  was 
very  busy  there  could  be  no  doubt,  for  thought  was  plainly 
written  on  her  face.  True  was  not  often  the  first  to  speak; 
but,  finding  Gerty  unusually  quiet,  he  lifted  up  her  chin,  looked 
inquiringly  in  her  face,  and  then  said :  — 

"Well,  Willie  's  a  pretty  clever  sort  of  a  boy,  isn't  he?  " 

Gerty  answered,  "Yes;"  without,  however,  seeming  to  know 
what  she  was  saying. 

"You  like  him,  don't  you? "  said  True. 

"Very  much,"  said  Gerty,  in  the  same  absent  way.  It  was 
not  Willie  she  was  thinking  of.  True  waited  for  Gerty  to  be 
gin  talking  about  her  new  acquaintance ;  but  she  did  not  speak 
for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  looking  up  suddenly,  she  said :  — 

"Uncle  True?" 


46  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"What  say?" 

"  What  does  Samuel  pray  to  God  for  ? " 

True  stared.  "Samuel!  —  pray!  —  I  guess  I  don't  know 
exactly  what  you  're  saying." 

"Why,"  said  Gerty,  holding  up  the  image,  "Willie  says 
this  little  boy's  name  is  Samuel;  arid  that  he  sits  on  his  knee, 
and  puts  his  hands  together  so,  and  looks  up,  because  he  's 
praying  to  God,  that  lives  up  in  the  sky.  I  don't  know  what 
he  means,  —  way  up  in  the  sky,  —  do  you  ?  " 

True  took  the  image  and  looked  at  it  attentively ;  he  moved 
uneasily  upon  his  chair,  scratched  his  head,  and  finally  said :  — 

"Well,  I  s'pose  he  's  about  right.  This  'ere  child  is  prayin', 
sartain,  though  I  did  n't  think  on  it  afore.  But  I  don't  jist 
know  what  he  calls  it  a  Samuel  for.  We  '11  ask  him,  some 
time." 

"Well,  what  does  he  pray  for,  Uncle  True?  " 

"0!  he  prays  to  make  him  good;  it  makes  folks  good  to 
^ray  to  God." 

"Can  God  make  folks  good? " 

"Yes.      God  is  very  great;  he  can  do  anything." 

"  How  can  he  hear  ?  " 

"He  hears  everything  and  sees  everything  in  the  world." 

"And  does  he  live  in  the  sky? " 

"Yes,"  said  True,  "in  heaven." 

Many  more  questions  Gerty  asked;  many  strange  questions- 
that  True  could  not  answer,  many  questions  that  he  wondered 
he  had  not  oftener  asked  himself.  True  had  a  humble,  loving 
heart,  and  a  child-like  faith;  he  had  enjoyed  but  little  religious 
instruction,  but  he  earnestly  endeavored  to  live  up  to  the  light 
he  had.  Perhaps,  in  his  faithful  practice  of  the  Christian  vir 
tues,  and  especially  in  his  obedience  to  the  great  law  of  Chris 
tian  charity,  he  more  nearly  approached  to  the  spirit  of  his 
Divine  Master  than  many  who,  by  daily  reading  and  study,  are 
far  more  familiar  with  Christian  doctrines.  But  he  had  never 
inquired  deeply  into  the  sources  of  that  belief  which  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt ;  and  he  was  not  at  all  prepared 
for  the  questions  suggested  by  the  inquisitive,  keen,  and  newly- 
excited  mind  of  little  Gerty.  He  answered  her  as  well  as  he 
could,  however;  and,  where  he  was  at  fault,  hesitated  not  to 
refer  her  to  Willie,  who,  he  told  her,  went  to  Sunday-school, 
and  knew  a  wonderful  sight  about  such  things.  All  the  infor- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  47 

mation  that  Gerty  could  gain  amounted  to  the  knowledge  of 
these  facts :  that  God  was  in  heaven ;  that  his  power  was  great ; 
and  that  people  were  made  better  by  prayer.  Her  little  eager 
brain  was  so  intent  upon  the  subject,  however,  that,  as  it  grew 
late,  the  thought  even  of  sleeping  in  her  new  room  could  not 
efface  it  from  her  mind.  After  she  had  gone  to  bed,  with  the 
white  image  hugged  close  to  her  bosom,  and  True  had  taken 
away  the  lamp,  she  lay  for  a  long  time  with  her  eyes  wide  open. 
Just  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  the  window.  Gerty  could  see 
out,  as  she  had  done  before  in  her  garret  at  Nan  Grant's;  but, 
the  window  being  larger,  she  had  a  much  more  extended  view. 
The  sky  was  bright  with  stars,  and  the  sight  of  them  revived 
her  old  wonder  and  curiosity  as  to  the  author  of  such  distant 
and  brilliant  lights.  Now,  however,  as  she  gazed,  there  darted 
through  her  mind  the  thought,  "  God  lit  them !  0,  how  great 
he  must  be !  But  a  child  might  pray  to  him !  "  She  rose  from 
her  little  bed,  approached  the  window,  and,  falling  on  her  knees 
and  clasping  her  hands  precisely  in  the  attitude  of  the  little 
Samuel,  she  looked  up  to  heaven.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  hei 
eyes  glistened  with  the  dew  of  a  tear  that  stood  in  each.  Was 
not  each  tear  a  prayer?  She  breathed  no  petition,  but  she 
longed  for  God  and  virtue.  Was  not  that  very  wish  a  prayer? 
Her  little  uplifted  heart  throbbed  vehemently.  Was  not  each 
throb  a  prayer?  And  did  not  God  in  heaven,  without  whom 
not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground,  hear  and  accept  that  first 
homage  of  a  little,  untaught  child ;  and  did  it  not  call  a  blessing 
down? 

Many  a  petition  did  Gerty  offer  up  in  after  years.  In  many 
a  time  of  trouble  did  she  come  to  God  for  help;  in  many  an 
hour  of  bitter  sorrow  did  she  from  the  same  source  seek  com 
fort;  and,  when  her  strength  and  heart  failed  her,  God  became 
the  strength  of  her  heart.  But  never  did  she  approach  his 
throne  with  a  purer  offering,  a  more  acceptable  sacrifice,  than 
when,  in  her  first  deep  penitence,  her  first  earnest  faith,  her 
first  enkindled  hope,  she  took  the  attitude,  and  her  heart 
uttered,  though  her  lips  pronounced  them  not,  the  words  of  the 
prophet- child,  "Here  am  I,  Lord!" 


48  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Revenge,  at  first  though  sweet, 
Bitter  ere  long  back  on  itself  recoils. 

MILTON. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  True  was  in  the  habit  of  going 
to  church  half  the  day  at  least,  with  the  sexton's  family;  but 
Gerty,  having  no  bonnet,  could  not  go,  and  True  would  not 
leave  her.  So  they  spent  the  morning  together,  wandering 
round  among  the  wharves  and  looking  at  the  ships,  Gerty  wearing 
her  old  shawl  pinned  over  her  head.  In  the  afternoon,  True 
fell  asleep  by  the  fireside,  and  Gerty  played  with  the  cat. 

Willie  came  in  the  evening;  but  it  was  only  to  say  good-by, 
before  going  back  to  Mr.  Bray's.  He  was  in  a  hurry,  and 
could  not  stop  at  all ;  for  his  master  had  a  sober  household,  and 
liked  to  have  his  doors  closed  early,  especially  Sunday  night. 
Old  Mr.  Cooper,  however,  made  his  usual  visit;  and  when 
he  had  gone,  True,  finding  Gerty  sound  asleep  on  the  settle, 
thought  it  a  pity  to  wake  her,  and  laid  her  in  bed  with  her 
clothes  on. 

She  did  not  wake  until  morning;  and  then,  much  surprised 
and  amused  at  finding  herself  dressed,  sprung  up  and  ran  out 
to  ask  True  how  it  happened.  True  was  busy  making  the  fire ; 
and  Gerty,  having  received  satisfactory  answers  to  her  numer 
ous  inquiries,  —  when  and  where  she  fell  asleep,  and  how  she 
came  in  bed,  —  applied  herself  earnestly  to  help  in  every  possi 
ble  way  about  getting  the  breakfast,  and  putting  the  room  in 
order.  She  followed  Mrs.  Sullivan's  instructions,  all  of  which 
she  remembered,  and  showed  a  wonderful  degree  of  capability 
in  everything  she  undertook.  In  the  course  of  the  few  follow 
ing  weeks,  during  which  her  perseverance  held  out  surprisingly, 
she  learned  how  to  make  herself  useful  in  many  ways,  and,  as 
Mrs.  Sullivan  had  prophesied,  gave  promise  of  becoming  one 
day  quite  a  clever  little  housekeeper.  Of  course,  the  services 
she  performed  were  trifling;  but  her  active  and  willing  feet 
saved  True  a  great  many  steps,  and  she  was  of  essential  aid  in 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  49 

keeping  the  rooms  neat,  that  being  her  especial  ambition.  She 
felt  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  expected  her,  now  that  the  dust  and 
cobwebs  were  all  cleared  away,  to  take  care  that  they  should 
not  accumulate  again ;  and  it  was  quite  an  amusing  sight  every 
day,  when  True  had  gone  out  as  usual  to  fill  and  clean  the 
street  lamps,  to  see  the  little  girl  diligently  laboring  with  an 
old  broom,  the  handle  of  which  was  cut  short  to  make  it  more 
suitable  for  her  use.  Mrs.  Sullivan  looked  in  occasionally,  to 
praise  and  assist  her;  and  nothing  made  Gerty  happier  than 
learning  how  to  do  some  new  thing.  She  met  with  a  few  trials 
and  discouragements,  to  be  sure.  In  two  or  three  instances  the 
toast  got  burned  to  a  cinder;  and  worse  still,  she  one  day 
broke  a  painted  teacup,  over  which  she  shed  many  a  tear ;  but 
as  True  never  thought  of  blaming  her  for  anything,  she  forgot 
her  misfortunes,  and  experience  made  her  careful. 

Kate  McCarty  thought  her  the  smartest  child  in  the  world, 
and  would  sometimes  come  in  and  wash  up  the  floor,  or  do 
some  other  work  which  required  more  strength  or  skill  than 
Gerty  possessed. 

Prompted  by  her  ambition  to  equal  Mrs.  Sullivan's  expecta 
tions,  and  still  more  by  her  desire  to  be  useful  to  True,  and  in 
some  degree  manifest  her  love  to  him  by  her  labors,  Gerty  was 
usually  patient,  good  natured,  and  obliging.  So  very  indulgent 
was  True,  that  he  rarely  indeed  laid  a  command  upon  the  child, 
leaving  her  to  take  her  own  course  and  have  her  own  way; 
but,  undisciplined  as  she  was,  she  willingly  yielded  obedience 
to  one  who  never  thwarted  her,  and  the  old  man  seldom  saw 
her  exhibit  in  his  presence  that  violent  temper  which,  when 
roused,  knew  no  restraint.  She  had  little  to  irritate  her  in 
the  quiet  home  she  now  enjoyed;  but  instances  sometimes  oc 
curred  which  proved  that  the  fire  of  her  little  spirit  was  not 
quenched  or  its  evil  propensities  extinguished. 

One  Sunday  Gerty,  who  had  now  a  nice  little  hood  which 
True  had  bought  for  her,  was  returning  with  Mr.  Cooper,  Mr. 
Flint,  and  Willie  from  the  afternoon  service  at  church.  The 
two  old  men  were  engaged  in  one  of  their  lengthy  discussions, 
and  the  children,  having  fallen  into  the  rear,  had  been  talking 
earnestly  about  the  church,  the  minister,  the  people,  and  the 
music,  all  of  which  were  new  to  Gerty,  and  greatly  excited  her 
wonder  and  astonishment. 

As  they  drew  near  home,  Willie  remarked  how  dark  it  was 


50  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

growing  in  the  streets;  and  then,  looking  down  at  Gerty,  whom 
he  held  by  the  hand,  he  said,  "  Gerty,  do  you  ever  go  out  with 
Uncle  True  and  see  him  light  the  lamps  1 " 

"No,  I  never  did,"  said  Gerty,  "since  the  first  night  I 
came.  I  've  wanted  to,  but  it 's  been  so  cold  Uncle  True 
would  not  let  me;  he  said  I  'd  just  catch  the  fever  again." 

"It  won't  be  cold  this  evening,"  said  Willie;  "it'll  be  a 
beautiful  night;  and  if  Uncle  True  's  willing,  let 's  you  and  I 
go  with  him.  I've  often  been,  and  it's  first  rate;  you  can 
look  into  the  windows  and  see  folks  drinking  tea  and  sitting 
all  round  the  fire  in  the  parlors." 

"And  I  like  to  see  him  light  those  great  lamps,"  interrupted 
•Gerty ;  "  they  make  it  look  so  bright  and  beautiful  all  round.  I 
hope  he  '11  let  us  go ;  I  '11  ask  him ;  come,"  said  she,  pulling  him 
by  the  hand,  "let 's  catch  up  with  them  and  ask  him  now." 

"No, — wait,"  said  Willie;  "he's  busy  talking  with 
grandpa;  and  we  're  almost  home,  we  can  ask  him  then." 

He  could  hardly  restrain  her  impatience,  however;  and  as 
soon  as  they  reached  the  gate,  she  suddenly  broke  away  from 
him,  and  rushing  up  to  True  made  known  her  request.  The 
plan  was  willingly  acceded  to,  and  the  three  soon  started  on  the 
rounds. 

For  some  time  Gerty 's  attention  was  so  wholly  engrossed  by 
the  lamplighting  that  she  could  see  and  enjoy  nothing  else. 
But  when  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  came  in 
sight  of  a  large  apothecary's  shop,  her  delight  knew  no  bounds. 
The  brilliant  colors  displayed  in  the  windows,  now  for  the  first 
time  seen  by  the  evening  light,  completely  captivated  her  fancy ; 
and  when  Willie  told  her  that  his  master's  shop  was  very  simi 
lar,  she  thought  it  must  be  a  fine  place  to  spend  one's  life  in. 
Then  she  wondered  why  this  was  open  on  Sunday,  when  all 
the  other  stores  were  closed;  and  Willie,  stopping  to  explain 
the  matter  to  her,  and  to  gratify  her  curiosity  on  many  other 
points,  found,  when  they  again  started  on  their  way,  that  True 
was  some  distance  in  advance  of  them.  He  hurried  Gerty 
along,  telling  her  that  they  were  now  in  the  finest  street  they 
should  pass  through,  and  that  they  must  make  haste,  for  they 
had  nearly  reached  the  house  he  most  wanted  her  to  see. 
When  they  came  up  with  True,  he  was  just  placing  his  ladder 
against  a  post  opposite  a  fine  block  of  buildings.  Many  of  the 
front  windows  were  shaded,  so  that  the  children  could  not  see 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  51 

in;  some,  however,  either  had  no  curtains,  or  they  had  not  yet 
been  drawn.  In  one  parlor  there  was  a  pleasant  wood  fire, 
around  which  a  group  were  gathered;  and  here  Gerty  would 
fain  have  lingered.  Again,  in  another,  a  brilliant  chandelier 
was  lit,  and  though  the  room  was  vacant,  the  furniture  was  so 
showy,  and  the  whole  so  brilliant,  that  the  child  clapped  her 
hands  in  delight,  and  Willie  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to  leave 
the  spot  until  he  told  her  that  further  down  the  street  was 
another  house,  equally  attractive,  where  she  would  perhaps  see 
some  beautiful  children. 

"How  do  you  know  there'll  be  children  there?"  said  she, 
as  they  walked  along. 

"I  don't  know,  certainly,"  said  Willie;  "but  I  think  there 
will.  They  used  always  to  be  up  at  the  window  when  I  came 
with  Uncle  True  last  winter." 

"How  many? "  asked  Gerty. 

"Three,  I  believe;  there  was  one  little  girl  with  such  beau 
tiful  curls,  and  such  a  sweet,  cunning  little  face.  She  looked 
like  a  wax  doll,  only  a  great  deal  prettier." 

"  0,  I  hope  we  shall  see  her ! "  said  Gerty,  dancing  along  on 
the  tops  of  her  toes,  so  full  was  she  of  excitement  and  pleasure. 

"There  they  are!"  exclaimed  Willie;  "all  three,  I  declare, 
just  as  they  used  to  be ! " 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Gerty ;  "  where  ?  " 

"Over  opposite,  in  the  great  stone  house.  Here,  let's  cross 
over.  It 's  muddy  ;  I  '11  carry  you." 

Willie  lifted  Gerty  carefully  over  the  mud,  and  they  stood  in 
front  of  the  house.  True  had  not  yet  come  up.  It  was  he 
that  the  children  were  watching  for.  Gerty  was  not  the  only 
child  that  loved  to  see  the  lamps  lit. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  so  that  persons  in  a  light  room  could 
not  see  any  one  out  of  doors;  but  Willie  and  Gerty  had  so 
much  the  better  chance  to  look  in.  It  was  indeed  a  fine  man 
sion,  evidently  the  home  of  wealth.  A  clear  coal  fire,  and  a 
bright  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  shed  abroad  their  cheer 
ful  blaze.  Eich  carpets,  deeply  tinted  curtains,  pictures  in 
gilded  frames,  and  huge  mirrors,  reflecting  the  whole  on  every 
side,  gave  Gerty  her  first  impressions  of  luxurious  life.  There 
was  an  air  of  comfort  combined  with  all  this  elegance,  which 
made  it  still  more  fascinating  to  the  child  of  poverty  and  want. 
A  table  was  bountifully  spread  for  tea ;  the  cloth  of  snow-white 


52  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

damask,  the  shining  plate  above  all,  the  homelike  hissing  tea 
kettle,  had  a  most  inviting  look.  A  gentleman  in  gay  slippers 
was  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire ;  a  lady  in  a  gay  cap  was  super 
intending  a  servant  girl's  arrangements  at  the  tea  table,  and 
the  children  of  the  household,  smiling  and  happy,  were  crowded 
together  on  a  window-seat,  looking  out,  as  we  have  said. 

They  were,  as  Willie  had  described  them,  sweet,  lovely  look 
ing  little  creatures,  especially  a  girl  about  the  same  age  as 
Gerty,  the  eldest  of  the  three.  Her  fair  hair  fell  in  long  ring 
lets  over  a  neck  as  white  as  snow;  she  had  blue  eyes,  a  cherub 
face,  and  a  little  round,  plump  figure.  Gerty 's  admiration  and 
rapture  were  such  that  she  could  find  no  expression  for  them, 
except  in  jumping  up  and  down,  shouting,  laughing,  and  di 
recting  Willie's  notice  first  to  one  thing  and  then  another. 

"0,  Willie!  isn't  she  a  darling?  and  see  what  a  beautiful 
fire,  — what  a  splendid  lady!  And  look!  look  at  the  father's 
shoes !  What  is  that  on  the  table  ?  I  guess  it  's  good ! 
There's  a  big  looking-glass;  and  0,  Willie!  ain't  they  dear 
little  handsome  children  ?  " 

In  all  her  exclamations,  she  began  and  ended  with  her  praises 
of  the  children.  Willie  was  quite  satisfied;  Gerty  was  as 
much  pleased  as  he  had  expected  or  wished. 

True  now  came  up,  and  as  his  torchlight  swept  along  the 
sidewalk,  Gerty  and  Willie  became,  in  their  turn,  the  subjects 
of  notice  and  conversation.  The  little  curly-haired  girl  saw 
them,  and  pointed  them  out  to  the  notice  of  the  other  two. 
Though  Gerty  could  not  know  what  they  were  saying,  she  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  being  stared  at  and  talked  about ;  and,  hid 
ing  behind  the  post,  she  would  not  move  or  look  up,  though 
Willie  laughed  at  her,  and  told  her  it  was  now  her  turn  to  be 
looked  at.  When  True  took  up  his  ladder,  however,  and 
started  to  move  off,  she  commenced  following  him  at  a  run, 
so  as  to  escape  observation;  but  Willie  calling  to  her,  and  say 
ing  that  the  children  were  gone  from  the  window,  she  ran  back 
as  quickly  to  have  one  more  look,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see 
them  taking  their  places  at  the  tea  table.  The  next  instant 
the  servant  girl  came  and  drew  down  the  window  shades. 
Gerty  then  took  Willie's  hand  again,  and  .they  hastened  on 
once  more  to  overtake  True. 

"  Should  n't  you  like  to  live  in  such  a  house  as  that,  Gerty  1 " 
said  Willie. 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  53 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Gerty;  "ain't  it  splendid?" 

"I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  house,"  said  Willie.  "I  mean  to 
one  of  these  days." 

"Where  will  you  get  it? "  exclaimed  Gerty,  much  amazed  at 
so  bold  a  declaration. 

"0,  I  shall  work,  and  grow  rich,  and  buy  it." 

"You  can't;  it  would  take  a  lot  o'  money." 

"I  know  it;  but  I  can  earn  a  lot,  and  I  mean  to.  The 
gentleman  that  lives  in  that  grand  house  was  a  poor  boy  when 
he  first  came  to  Boston,  and  why  can't  one  poor  boy  get  rich 
as  well  as  another  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  suppose  he  got  so  much  money  ? " 

"I  don't  know  how  he  did;  there  are  a  good  many  ways. 
Some  people  think  it 's  all  luck,  but  I  guess  it 's  as  much  smart 
ness  as  anything." 

".Are  you  smart  ?  " 

Willie  laughed.  "  Ain't  I  ?  "  said  he.  "  If  I  don't  turn  out 
a  rich  man  one  of  these  days,  you  may  say  I  ain't." 

"I  know  what  I  'd  do  if  I  was  rich,"  said  Gerty. 

"What?  "asked  Willie. 

"First,  I'd  buy  a  great,  nice  chair  for  Uncle  True,  with 
cushions  all  in  the  inside,  and  bright  flowers  on  it,  — just  ex 
actly  like  that  one  the  gentleman  was  sitting  in;  and  next,  I  'd 
have  great  big  lamps,  ever  so  many  all  in  a  bunch,  so  's  to  make 
the  room  as  light  —  as  light  as  it  could  be !  " 

"Seems  to  me  you're  mighty  fond  of  lights,  Gerty,"  said 
Willie. 

"I  be,"  said  the  child.  "I  hate  old,  dark,  black  places.  I 
like  stars,  and  sunshine,  and  fires,  and  Uncle  True's  torch  —  " 

"And  I  like  bright  eyes!"  interrupted  Willie;  "yours  look 
just  like  stars,  they  shine  so  to-night.  Ain't  we  having  a  good 
time?" 

"Yes,  real." 

And  so  they  went  on,  Gerty  jumping  and  dancing  along  the 
sidewalk,  Willie  sharing  in  her  gayety  and  joy,  and  glorying 
in  the  responsibility  of  entertaining  and  at  the  same  time  pro 
tecting  the  wild  little  creature.  They  talked  much  of  how  they 
would  spend  that  future  wealth  which,  in  their  buoyant  hope 
fulness,  they  both  fully  calculated  upon  one  day  possessing; 
for  Gerty  had  caught  Willie's  spirit,  and  she,  too,  meant  to 
work  and  grow  rich.  Willie  told  Gerty  of  the  many  plans  he 


54  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

had  for  surrounding  his  mother  and  grandfather,  and  even  her 
self  and  Uncle  True,  with  every  comfort  and  luxury  he  had 
ever  heard  or  dreamt  of.  Among  other  things,  his  mother  was 
to  wear  a  gay  cap,  like  that  of  the  lady  they  had  seen  through 
the  window;  and  at  this  Gerty  had  a  great  laugh.  She  had 
an  innate  perception  of  the  fact  that  the  quiet,  demure  little 
widow  would  be  ridiculous  in  a  flowered  headgear.  Good  taste 
is  inborn,  and  Gerty  had  it  in  her.  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Sulli 
van,  attired  in  anything  that  was  not  simple,  neat,  and  sober- 
looking,  would  altogether  lose  her  identity.  Willie  had  no  self 
ish  schemes;  the  generous  boy  suggested  nothing  for  his  own 
gratification ;  it  was  for  the  rest  he  meant  to  labor,  and  in  and 
through  them  that  he  looked  for  his  reward.  Happy  chil 
dren  !  happy  as  children  only  can  be.  What  do  they  want  of 
wealth  ?  What  of  anything  material  and  tangible,  more  than 
they  now  possess  ?  They  have  what  is  worth  more  than  riches 
or  fame.  They  are  full  of  childhood's  faith  and  hope.  With 
a  fancy  and  imagination  unchecked  by  disappointment,  they 
are  building  those  same  castles  that  so  many  thousand  children 
have  built  before,  —  that  children  always  will  be  building  to 
the  end  of  time.  Far  off  in  the  distance  they  see  bright 
things,  and  know  not  what  myths  they  are.  High  up  they 
rise,  and  shine,  and  glitter;  and  the  little  ones  fix  their  eyes 
on  them,  overlook  the  rough,  dark  places  that  lie  between,  see 
not  the  perils  of  the  way,  suspect  not  the  gulfs  and  snares  into 
which  many  are  destined  to  fall;  but,  confident  of  gaining  the 
glorious  goal,  they  set  forth  on  the  way  rejoicing.  Blessings 
on  that  childhood's  delusion,  if  such  it  be.  Undeceive  not 
the  little  believers,  ye  wise  ones!  Check  not  that  God-given 
hopefulness  which  will,  perhaps,  in  its  airy  flight,  lift  them  in 
safety  over  many  a  rough  spot  in  life's  road.  It  lasts  not  long, 
at  the  best ;  then  check  it  not,  for  as  it  dies  out  the  way  grows 
hard. 

One  source  of  the  light-heartedness  that  Willie  and  Gerty 
experienced  undoubtedly  lay  in  the  disinterestedness  and  gen 
erosity  of  the  emotion  which  occupied  them;  for  in  the  plans 
they  formed,  neither  seemed  actuated  by  selfish  motives.  They 
were  both  filled  with  the  desire  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  of 
their  more  aged  friends.  It  was  a  beautiful  spirit  of  grateful 
love  which  each  manifested,  —  a  spirit  in  a  great  degree  natu 
ral  to  both.  In  Willie,  however,  it  had  been  so  fostered  by 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  55 

pious  training  that  it  partook  of  the  nature  of  a  principle; 
while  in  Gerty  it  was  a  mere  impulse ;  and,  alas  for  poor  human 
nature,  when  swayed  by  its  own  passions  alone!  The  poor 
little  girl  had  —  as  who  has  not  ?  —  other  less  pleasing  impulses ; 
and  if  the  former  needed  encouraging  and  strengthening,  so  did 
the  latter  require  to  be  uprooted  and  destroyed. 

They  had  reached  the  last  lamp-post  in  the  street,  and  now 
turned  another  corner;  but  scarcely  had  they  gone  a  dozen 
steps  before  Gerty  stopped  short,  and  positively  refusing  to 
proceed  any  further,  pulled  hard  at  Willie's  hand,  and  tried  to 
induce  him  to  retrace  his  steps. 

"What 's  the  matter,  Gerty? "  said  he;   "are  you  tired?  " 

"No,  0  no!  but  I  can't  go  any  further." 

"Why  not?" 

"  0,  because  —  because  —  "  and  here  Gerty  lowered  her  voice 
and,  putting  her  mouth  close  to  Willie's  ear,  whispered, 
"there  is  Nan  Grant's;  I  see  the  house!  I  had  forgot  Uncle 
True  went  there;  and  I  can't  go  —  I  'm  afraid! " 

"  Oho ! "  said  Willie,  drawing  himself  up  with  dignity ;  "  I 
should  like  to  know  what  you  're  afraid  of  when  I  'm  with  you. 
Let  her  touch  you  if  she  dares !  And  Uncle  True,  too !  —  I 
should  laugh."  Very  kindly  and  pleasantly  did  Willie  plead 
with  the  child,  telling  her  that  Nan  would  not  be  likely  to  see 
them,  but  that  perhaps  they  should  see  her,  and  that  was  just 
what  he  wanted  —  nothing  he  should  like  better.  Gerty 's  fears 
were  easily  allayed.  She  was  not  naturally  timid;  it  was  only 
the  suddenness  of  the  shock  she  received,  on  recognizing  her 
old  home,  that  had  revived,  with  full  force,  her  dread  and  hor 
ror  of  Nan.  It  needed  but  little  reasoning  to  assure  her  of  the 
perfect  safety  of  her  present  position ;  and  her  fears  soon  gave 
place  to  the  desire  to  point  out  to  Willie  her  former  persecutor. 
So  by  the  time  they  stood  in  front  of  the  house,  she  was 
rather  hoping,  than  otherwise,  to  catch  sight  of  Nan.  And 
never  had  any  one  a  fairer  chance  to  be  looked  at  than  Nan  at 
that  moment.  She  was  standing  opposite  the  window,  engaged 
in  an  animated  dispute  with  one  of  her  neighbors.  Her  coun 
tenance  expressed  angry  excitement;  and  an  ill-looking  woman 
at  best,  her  face  now  was  so  sufficient  an  index  to  her  charac 
ter,  that  no  one  could  see  her  thus  and  afterwards  question  her 
right  to  the  title  of  vixen,  virago,  scold,  or  anything  else  that 
conveys  the  same  idea. 


56  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"  Which  is  she  1  "  said  Willie ;  "  the  tall  one,  swinging  the 
coffee-pot  in  her  hand  1  I  guess  she  '11  break  the  handle  off 
if  she  don't  look  out." 

"Yes,"  said  Gerty,  "that's  Nan." 

"What's  she  doing?" 

"0,  she's  fighting  with  Mis'  Birch;  she  does  most  always 
with  somebody.  She  don't  see  us,  does  she?" 

"No,  she's  too  busy.  Come,  don't  let's  stop;  she's  an 
ugly-looking  woman,  just  as  I  knew  she  was.  I  've  seen  enough 
of  her,  and  I  'm  sure  you  have  —  come." 

But  Gerty  lingered.  Courageous  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  safe  and  unseen,  she  was  attentively  gazing  at  Nan,  and 
her  eyes  glistened,  not,  as  a  few  minutes  before,  with  the 
healthy  and  innocent  excitement  of  a  cheerful  heart,  but  with 
the  fire  of  kindled  passion,  —  a  fire  that  Nan  had  kindled  long 
ago,  which  had  not  yet  gone  out,  and  which  the  sight  of  Nan 
had  now  revived  in  full  force.  Willie,  thinking  it  was  time 
to  be  hurrying  home,  and  perceiving  once  more  that  Mr.  Flint 
and  his  torch  were  far  down  the  street,  now  left  Gerty,  and 
started  himself,  as  an  expedient  to  draw  her  on,  saying  at  the 
same  time,  "Come,  Gerty,  I  can't  wait." 

Gerty  turned,  saw  that  he  was  going,  then,  quick  as  light 
ning,  stooped,  and  picking  up  a  stone  from  the  sidewalk,  flung 
it  at  the  window.  There  was  a  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  an 
exclamation  in  Nan's  well-known  voice;  but  Gerty  was  not 
there  to  see  the  result  of  her  work.  The  instant  the  stone  had 
left  her  hand,  and  she  heard  the  crash,  her  fears  all  returned, 
and  flying  past  Willie,  she  paused  not  until  she  was  safe  by 
the  side  of  True.  Willie  did  not  overtake  them  until  they 
were  nearly  home,  and  then  came  running  up,  exclaiming 
breathlessly,  "  Why,  Gerty,  do  you  know  what  you  did  ?  —  You 
broke  the  window !  " 

Gerty  jerked  her  shoulders  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  Willie, 
pouted,  and  declared  that  was  what  she  meant  to  do. 

True  now  inquired  what  window,  and  Gerty  unhesitatingly 
acknowledged  what  she  had  done,  and  avowed  that  she  did  it 
on  purpose.  True  and  Willie  were  shocked  and  silent.  Gerty 
was  silent,  too,  for  the  rest  of  the  walk ;  there  were  clouds  on 
her  face,  and  she  felt  unhappy  in  her  little  heart.  She  did  not 
understand  herself,  or  her  own  sensations ;  we  may  not  say  how 
far  she  was  responsible  for  them,  but  this  much  is  certain,  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  57 

face  alone  betrayed  that,  as  evil  took  violent  possession  of  her 
soul,  peace  and  pleasantness  fled  away.  Poor  child !  how  much 
she  needs  to  learn  the  truth!  God  grant  that  the  inward  may 
one  day  become  as  dear  to  her  as  now  the  outward  light! 

Willie  bade  them  good-night  at  the  house-door,  and,  as  usual, 
(hey  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  week. 


58  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 


CHAPTER   IX 

But  peace:  I  must  not  quarrel  with  the  will 
Of  highest  dispensation,  which  herein 
Haply  had  ends  above  my  reach  to  know. 

MILTON. 

"FATHER,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  one  afternoon,  as  he  was 
preparing  to  go  out  and  to  take  with  him  a  number  of  articles 
which  he  wanted  for  his  Saturday's  work  in  the  church,  "why 
don't  you  get  little  Gerty  to  go  with  you,  and  carry  some  of 
your  things?  You  can't  take  them  all  at  once,  and  she  'd  like 
to  go,  I  know." 

"She  'd  only  be  in  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Cooper;  "I  can  take 
them  myself." 

But  when  he  had  swung  a  lantern  and  an  empty  coal-hod  on 
one  arm,  taken  a  little  hatchet  and  a  basket  of  kindlings  in  his 
hand,  and  hoisted  a  small  ladder  over  his  shoulder,  he  was  fain 
to  acknowledge  that  there  was  no  accommodation  for  his  ham 
mer  and  a  large  paper  of  nails. 

So  Mrs.  Sullivan  called  Gerty,  and  asked  her  to  go  to  the 
church  with  Mr.  Cooper,  and  help  him  carry  his  tools. 

Gerty  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  proposal,  and  taking 
the  hammer  and  nails,  started  off  with  great  alacrity. 

When  they  reached  the  church,  the  old  sexton  took  them 
from  her  hands,  and  telling  her  she  could  play  about  until  he 
went  home,  but  to  be  sure  and  do  no  mischief,  left  her  and 
went  down  into  the  vestry  room  to  commence  there  his  opera 
tion  of  sweeping,  dusting,  and  building  fires.  Gerty  was  thus 
left  to  her  own  amusement;  and  ample  amusement  she  found 
it,  for  some  time,  to  wander  round  among  the  empty  aisles  and 
pews,  and  examine  closely  what,  hitherto,  she  had  only  viewed 
from  a  corner  of  the  gallery.  Then  she  ascended  the  pulpit, 
and  in  imagination  addressed  a  large  audience.  She  was  just 
beginning  to  grow  weary  and  restless,  however,  when  the  or 
ganist,  who  had  entered  unperceived,  commenced  playing  some 
low,  sweet  music;  and  Gerty,  seating  herself  on  the  pulpit 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  59 

stairs,  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  and  pleasure.  He 
had  not  played  long  before  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  broad 
aisle  opened,  and  a  couple  of  visitors  entered,  in  observing 
whom  Gerty  was  soon  wholly  engrossed.  One  was  an  elderly 
man,  dressed  like  a  clergyman,  short  and  spare,  with  hair  thin 
and  gray,  forehead  high,  and  features  rather  sharp ;  but  though 
a  plain  man,  remarkable  for  his  calm  and  benignant  expression 
of  countenance.  A  young  lady,  apparently  about  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  was  leaning  on  his  arm.  She  was  attired  with 
great  simplicity,  wearing  a  dark  brown  cloak,  and  a  bonnet  of 
the  same  color,  relieved  by  some  light  blue  ribbon  about  the 
face.  The  only  article  of  her  dress  which  was  either  rich  or 
elegant  was  some  beautiful  dark  fur,  fastened  at  her  throat  with 
a  costly  enamelled  slide.  She  was  somewhat  below  the  middle 
size,  but  had  a  pleasing  and  well-rounded  figure.  Her  features 
were  small  and  regular,  her  complexion  clear,  though  rather 
pale,  and  her  light  brown  hair  was  most  neatly  and  carefully 
arranged.  She  never  lifted  her  eyes  as  she  walked  slowly  up 
the  aisle,  and  the  long  lashes  nearly  swept  her  cheek. 

The  two  approached  the  spot  where  Gerty  sat,  but  without 
perceiving  her.  "I  am  glad  you  like  the  organ,"  said  the 
gentleman;  "I'm  not  much  of  a  judge  of  music  myself,  but 
they  say  it  is  a  superior  instrument,  and  that  Hermann  plays  it 
remarkably  well." 

"Nor  is  my  opinion  of  any  value,"  said  the  lady;  "for  I 
have  very  little  knowledge  of  music,  much  as  I  love  it.  But 
chat  symphony  sounds  very  delightful  to  me;  it  is  a  long  time 
since  I  have  heard  such  touching  strains;  or,  it  may  be,  it  is 
partly  owing  to  their  striking  so  sweetly  on  the  solemn  quiet 
of  the  church  this  afternoon.  I  love  to  go  into  a  large  church 
on  a  week  day.  It  was  very  kind  in  you  to  call  for  me  this 
afternoon.  How  came  you  to  think  of  it  ?  " 

"I  thought  you  would  enjoy  it,  my  dear.  I  knew  Hermann 
would  be  playing  about  this  time;  and  besides,  when  I  saw 
how  pale  you  were  looking,  it  seemed  to  me  the  walk  would  do 
you  good." 

"  It  has  done  me  good.  I  was  not  feeling  well,  and  the  clear 
cold  air  was  just  what  I  needed ;  I  knew  it  would  refresh  me,  but 
Mrs.  Ellis  was  busy,  and  I  could  not,  you  know,  go  out  alone. " 

"I  thought  I  should  find  Mr.  Cooper,  the  sexton,  here," 
said  the  gentleman.  "I  want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  light; 


60  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

the  afternoons  are  so  short  now,  and  it  grows  dark  so  early,  I 
must  ask  him  to  open  more  of  the  blinds,  or  I  cannot  see  to 
read  my  sermon  to-morrow.  Perhaps  he  is  in  the  vestry  room ; 
he  is  always  somewhere  about  here  on  Saturday ;  I  think  I  had 
better  go  and  look  for  him." 

Just  then  Mr.  Cooper  entered  the  church,  and,  seeing  the 
clergyman,  came  up,  and  after  receiving  his  directions  about 
the  light  seemed  to  request  him  to  accompany  him  somewhere; 
for  the  gentleman  hesitated,  glanced  at  the  young  lady,  and 
then  said,  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to-day ;  and  as  you  say 
you  are  at  leisure,  it  is  a  pity  I  should  not ;  but  I  don't  know  —  " 

Then,  turning  to  the  lady,  he  said,  "Emily,  Mr.  Cooper 
wants  me  to  go  to  Mrs.  Glass's  with  him;  and  I  suppose  I 
should  have  to  be  absent  some  time.  Do  you  think  you  should 
mind  waiting  here  until  I  return?  She  lives  in  the  next  street; 
but  I  may  be  detained,  for  it 's  about  that  matter  of  the  library 
books  being  so  mischievously  defaced,  and  I  am  very  much 
afraid  that  oldest  boy  of  hers  had  something  to  do  with  it.  It 
ought  to  be  inquired  into  before  to-morrow,  and  I  can  hardly 
walk  so  far  as  this  again  to-night,  or  I  would  not  think  of  leav 
ing  you." 

"0!  go,  by  all  means,"  said  Emily;  "don't  mind  me;  it 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  sit  here  and  listen  to  the  music.  Mr. 
Hermann's  playing  is  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  I  don't  care  how 
long  I  wait;  so  I  beg  you  won't  hurry  on  my  account,  Mr. 
Arnold." 

Thus  assured,  Mr.  Arnold  concluded  to  go;  and  having  first 
led  the  lady  to  a  chair  beneath  the  pulpit,  went  away  with  Mr. 
Cooper. 

All  this  time  Gerty  had  been  quite  unnoticed,  and  had  re 
mained  very  quiet  on  the  upper  stair,  a  little  secured  from  sight 
by  the  pulpit.  Hardly  had  the  doors  closed,  however,  with  a 
loud  bang,  when  the  child  got  up,  and  began  to  descend  the 
stairs.  The  moment  she  moved  the  lady,  whose  seat  was  very 
near,  started,  and  exclaimed  rather  suddenly,  ''Who's  that?" 

Gerty  stood  quite  still,  and  made  no  reply.  Strangely  enough, 
the  lady  did  not  look  up,  though  she  must  have  perceived  that 
the  movement  was  above  her  head.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause,  and  then  Gerty  began  again  to  run  down  the  stairs. 
This  time  the  lady  sprung  up,  and  stretching  out  her  hand, 
said  as  quickly  as  before,  "Who  is  it? " 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  61 

"Me,"  said  Gerty,  looking  up  in  the  lady's  face;  "it 's  only 
me." 

"  Will  you  stop  and  speak  to  me  ? "  said  the  lady. 

Gerty  not  only  stopped,  but  came  close  up  to  Emily's  chair, 
irresistibly  attracted  by  the  music  of  the  sweetest  voice  she  had 
ever  heard.  The  lady  placed  her  hand  on  Gerty 's  head,  drew 
her  towards  her,  and  said,  "Who  are  you?" 

"Gerty." 

"  Gerty  who  ?  " 

"Nothing  else  but  Gerty." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  other  name  1 " 

"I  haven't  got  any  other  name." 

"How  came  you  here?  " 

"I  came  with  Mr.  Cooper,  to  help  him  bring  his  things." 

"And  he  's  left  you  here  to  wait  for  him,  and  I  'm  left  too; 
so  we  must  take  care  of  each  other,  mustn't  we? " 

Gerty  laughed  at  this. 

"  Where  were  you  ?  —  On  the  stairs  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  you  sit  down  on  this  step  by  my  chair,  and  talk 
with  me  a  little  while;  I  want  to  see  if  we  can't  find  out  what 
your  other  name  is.  Where  do  you  say  you  live  ?  " 

"With  Uncle  True." 

"True?" 

"Yes.  Mr.  True  Flint  I  live  with  now.  He  took  me 
home  to  his  house  one  night,  when  Nan  Grant  put  me  out  on 
the  sidewalk." 

"Why!  are  you  that  little  girl?  Then  I've  heard  of  you 
before.  Mr.  Flint  told  me  all  about  you." 

"  Do  you  know  my  Uncle  True  ?  " 

"Yes,  very  well." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Emily  Graham." 

"  0 !  I  know, "  said  Gerty,  springing  suddenly  up,  and  clap^ 
ping  her  hands  together;  "I  know.  You  asked  him  to  keep 
me  —  he  said  so,  — I  heard  him  say  so;  and  you  gave  me  my 
clothes  and  you  're  beautiful;  and  you  're  good;  and  I  love  you ! 
0  I  love  you  ever  so  much ! " 

As  Gerty  spoke  with  a  voice  full  of  excitement,  a  strange 
look  passed  over  Miss  Graham's  face,  a  most  inquiring  and  rest 
less  look,  as  if  the  tones  of  the  voice  had  vibrated  on  a  chord  of 


62  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

her  memory.  She  did  not  speak,  but  passing  her  arm  round 
the  child's  waist  drew  her  closer  to  her.  As  the  peculiar  ex 
pression  passed  away  from  her  face,  and  her  features  assumed 
their  usual  calm  composure,  Gerty,  as  she  gazed  at  her  with  a 
look  of  wonder  (a  look  which  the  child  had  worn  during  the 
whole  of  the  conversation),  exclaimed  at  last,  "Are  you  going 
to  sleep?" 

"No. —Why?" 

" Because  your  eyes  are  shut." 

"They  are  always  shut,  my  child." 

"  Always  shut !  —  What  for  ?  " 

"I  am  blind,  Gerty;  I  can  see  nothing." 

"Not  see!"  said  Gerty;  "can't  you  see  anything?  Can't 
you  see  me  now  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

"0!"  exclaimed  Gerty,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "I'm  so 
glad." 

"  Glad  !  "  said  Miss  Graham,  in  the  saddest  voice  that  ever 
was  heard. 

"0,  yes!"  said  Gerty,  "so  glad  you  can't  see  me!  —  because 
now,  perhaps,  you  '11  love  me." 

"And  shouldn't  I  love  you  if  I  saw  you?"  said  Emily, 
passing  her  hand  softly  and  slowly  over  the  child's  features. 

"0,  no!"  answered  Gerty;  "I'm  so  ugly!  I'm  glad  you 
can't  see  how  ugly  I  am." 

"But  just  think,  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  in  the  same  sad  voice; 
"how  would  you  feel  if  you  could  not  see  the  light,  could  not 
see  anything  in  the  world  ?  " 

"Can't  you  see  the  sun,  and  the  stars,  and  the  sky,  and  the 
church  we  're  in  ?  Are  you  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"In  the  dark  all  the  time,  day  and  night  in  the  dark." 

Gerty  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  "  0 !  "  exclaimed  she 
as  soon  as  she  could  find  voice  amid  her  sobs,  "it's  too  bad! 
it's  too  bad!" 

The  child's  grief  was  contagious;  and  for  the  first  time  for 
years  Emily  wept  bitterly  for  her  blindness. 

It  was  for  but  a  few  moments,  however.  Quickly  recovering 
herself,  she  tried  to  compose  the  child  also,  saying,  "Hush! 
hush!  don't  cry;  and  don't  say  it's  too  bad!  It's  not  too 
bad;  I  can  bear  it  very  well.  I'm  used  to  it,  and  am  quite 
happy." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  63 

"/shouldn't  be  happy  in  the  dark;  I  should  hate  to  be!  " 
said  Gerty.  "I  ain't  glad  you're  blind;  I'm  real  sorry.  I 
wish  you  could  see  me  and  everything.  Can't  your  eyes  be 
opened  any  way  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Emily,  "never;  but  we  won't  talk  about  that 
any  more;  we  '11  talk  about  you.  I  want  to  know  what  makes 
you  think  yourself  so  very  ugly." 

"Because  folks  say  that  I  'm  an  ugly  child,  and  that  nobody 
loves  ugly  children." 

"Yes,  people  do,"  said  Emily,  "love  ugly  children,  if  they 
are  good." 

"But  I  ain't  good,"  said  Gerty;  "I  'm  real  bad!  " 

"But  you  can  be  good,"  said  Emily,  "and  then  everybody 
will  love  you." 

"Do  you  think  I  can  be  good? " 

"Yes,  if  you  try." 

"I  willtry." 

"I  hope  you  will,"  said  Emily.  "Mr.  Flint  thinks  a  great 
deal  of  his  little  girl,  and  she  must  do  all  she  can  to  please 
him." 

She  then  went  on  to  make  inquiries  concerning  Gerty 's 
former  way  of  life,  and  became  so  much  interested  in  the  recital 
of  the  little  girl's  early  sorrows  and  trials,  that  she  was  uncon^ 
scious  of  the  flight  of  time,  and  quite  unobservant  of  the  depar 
ture  of  the  organist,  who  had  ceased  playing,  closed  his  instru 
ment,  and  gone  away. 

Gerty  was  very  communicative.  Always  a  little  shy  of 
strangers  at  first,  she  was  nevertheless  easily  won  by  kind 
words;  and  in  the  present  case  the  sweet  voice  and  sympa 
thetic  tones  of  Emily  went  straight  to  her  heart.  Singularly 
enough,  though  her  whole  life  had  been  passed  among  the 
poorer,  and  almost  the  whole  of  it  among  the  lowest  class  of 
people,  she  seemed  to  feel  none  of  that  awe  and  constraint  which 
might  be  supposed  natural,  on  her  encountering  for  the  first 
time  one  who,  born  and  bred  amid  affluence  and  luxury,  showed 
herself,  in  every  word  and  motion,  a  lady  of  polished  mind  and 
manners.  On  the  contrary,  Gerty  clung  to  Emily  as  affection 
ately,  and  stroked  her  soft  boa  with  as  much  freedom,  as  if  she 
had  herself  been  born  in  a  palace,  and  cradled  in  sable  fur. 
Once  or  twice  she  took  Emily's  nicely  gloved  hand  between  both 
her  own,  and  held  it  tight,  —  her  favorite  mode  of  expressing  hei 


6*  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

enthusiastic  warmth  of  gratitude  and  admiration.  The  excit- 
able  but  interesting  child  took  no  less  strong  a  hold  upon  Miss 
Graham's  feelings.  The  latter  saw  at  once  how  totally  neg 
lected  the  little  one  had  been,  and  the  importance  of  her  being 
educated  and  trained  with  care,  lest  early  abuse,  acting  upon 
an  impetuous  disposition,  should  prove  destructive  to  a  nature 
capable  of  the  best  attainments.  The  two  were  still  entertain 
ing  each  other,  and,  as  we  have  said,  unconscious  of  the  late 
ness  of  the  hour,  when  Mr.  Arnold  entered  the  church  hastily, 
and  somewhat  out  of  breath.  As  he  came  up  the  aisle,  when 
he  was  yet  some  way  off,  he  called  to  Emily,  saying,  "Emily, 
dear,  I  'm  afraid  you  thought  I  had  forgotten  you,  I  have  been 
gone  so  much  longer  than  I  intended.  Were  you  not  quite 
tired  and  discouraged." 

"Have  you  been  gone  long ?"  replied  Emily.  "I  thought 
it  was  but  a  very  little  while ;  I  have  had  company,  you  see. " 

"  What,  little  folks ! "  said  Mr.  Arnold  good-naturedly. 
"Where  did  this  little  body  come  from? " 

"  She  came  to  the  church  this  afternoon  with  Mr.  Cooper. 
Isn't  he  here  for  her?  " 

"Cooper?  —  No;  he  went  straight  home  after  he  left  me; 
he  's  probably  forgotten  all  about  the  child.  What 's  to  be 
done  1 " 

"  Can't  we  take  her  home  1     Is  it  far  ?  " 

"It  is  two  or  three  streets  from  here,  and  directly  out  of  our 
way  —  altogether  too  far  for  you  to  walk. " 

"0,  no,  it  won't  tire  me;  I'm  quite  strong  now,  and  I 
wouldn't  but  know  she  was  safe  home,  on  any  account.  I'd 
rather  get  a  little  fatigued." 

If  Emily  could  but  have  seen  Gerty's  grateful  face  that  mo 
ment,  she  would  indeed  have  felt  repaid  for  almost  any  amount 
of  weariness. 

So  they  went  home  with  Gerty,  and  Emily  kissed  Gerty  at 
the  gate ;  and  Gerty  was  a  happy  child  that  night. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  65 


CHAPTER   X 


By  the  strong  spirit's  discipline, 

By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven, 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 

Is  woman  won  to  Heaven. 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 


As  may  be  supposed,  the  blind  girl  did  not  forget  our  little 
Gerty.  Emily  Graham  never  forgot  the  sufferings,  the  wants, 
the  necessities,  of  others.  She  could  not  see  the  world  with 
out,  but  there  was  a  world  of  love  and  sympathy  within  her, 
which  manifested  itself  in  abundant  benevolence  and  charity, 
both  of  heart  and  deed.  She  lived  a  life  of  love.  She  loved 
God  with  her  whole  heart,  and  her  neighbor  as  herself.  Her 
own  great  misfortunes  and  trials  could  not  be  helped,  and  were 
borne  without  repining;  but  the  misfortunes  and  trials  of  others 
became  her  care,  the  alleviation  of  them  her  greatest  delight. 
Emily  was  never  weary  of  doing  good.  Many  a  blessing  was 
called  down  upon  her  head,  by  young  and  old,  for  kindness 
past;  many  a  call  was  made  upon  her  for  further  aid;  and  to 
the  call  of  none  was  she  ever  deaf.  But  never  had  she  been 
so  touched  as  now  by  any  tale  of  sorrow.  Ready  listener  as 
she  was  to  the  story  of  grief  and  trouble,  she  knew  how  many 
children  were  born  into  the  world  amid  poverty  and  privation; 
how  many  were  abused,  neglected,  and  forsaken;  so  that  Gerty 's 
experience  was  not  new  to  her.  But  it  was  something  in  the 
child  herself  that  excited  and  interested  Emily  in  an  unwonted 
degree.  The  tones  of  her  voice,  the  earnestness  and  pathos 
with  which  she  spoke,  the  confiding  and  affectionate  manner  in 
which  she  had  clung  to  her,  the  sudden  clasping  of  her  hand, 
and  finally,  her  vehement  outbreak  of  grief  when  she  became 
conscious  of  Emily's  great  misfortune, — all  these  things  so 
haunted  Miss  Graham's  recollection,  that  she  dreamt  of  the 
child  at  night,  and  thought  much  of  her  by  day.  She  could 
not  account  to  herself  for  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  little 
stranger;  but  the  impulse  to  see  and  know  more  of  her  was 


66  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

irresistible,  and  sending  for  True,  she  talked  a  long  time  with 
him  about  the  child. 

True  was  highly  gratified  by  Miss  Graham's  account  of  the 
meeting  in  the  church,  and  of  the  interest  the  little  girl  had 
inspired  in  one  for  whom  he  felt  the  greatest  admiration  and 
respect.  Gerty  had  previously  told  him  how  she  had  seen  Miss 
Graham,  and  had  spoken  in  the  most  glowing  terms  of  the  dear 
lady,  who  was  so  kind  to  her,  and  brought  her  home  when  Mr. 
Cooper  had  forgotten  her,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  old 
man  that  the  fancy  was  mutual. 

Emily  asked  him  if  he  did  n't  intend  to  send  her  to  school. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  he;  "she's  a  little  thing,  and 
ain't  much  used  to  being  with  other  children.  Besides,  I  don't 
exactly  like  to  spare  her;  I  like  to  see  her  round." 

Emily  suggested  that  it  was  time  she  was  learning  to  read 
and  write,  and  that  the  sooner  she  went  among  other  children, 
the  easier  it  would  be  to  her. 

"Very  true,  Miss  Emily,  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Flint.  "I 
dare  say  you  're  right;  and  if  you  think  she  'd  better  go,  I  '11 
ask  her,  and  see  what  she  says." 

"I  would,"  said  Emily.  "I  think  she  might  enjoy  it,  be 
sides  improving  very  much;  and  about  her  clothes,  if  there's 
any  deficiency,  I'll  —  " 

"O,  no,  no,  Miss  Emily!"  interrupted  True;  "there's  no 
necessity;  she 's  very  well  on  't  now,  thanks  to  your  kind 
ness.  " 

"Well,"  said  Emily,  "if  she  should  have  any  wants,  you 
must  apply  to  me.  You  know  we  adopted  her  jointly,  and  I 
agreed  to  do  anything  I  could  for  her;  so  you  must  never 
hesitate,  —  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  serve  either  of  you.  Father 
always  feels  under  obligations  to  you,  Mr.  Flint,  for  faithful 
service,  that  cost  you  dear  in  the  end." 

"0,  Miss  Emily,"  said  True,  "Mr.  Graham  has  always  been 
my  best  friend;  and  as  to  that  'ere  accident  that  happened 
when  I  was  in  his  employ,  it  was  nobody's  fault  but  my  own; 
it  was  my  own  carelessness,  and  nobody's  else." 

"I  know  you  say  so,"  said  Emily,  "but  we  regretted  it  very 
much ;  and  you  must  n't  forget  what  I  tell  you,  that  I  shall 
delight  in  doing  anything  for  Gerty.  I  should  like  to  have 
her  come  and  see  me  some  day,  if  she  would  like  to,  and 
you'll  let  her." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  67 

"Sartain,  sartain,"  said  True,  "and  thank  you  kindly;  she  'd 
admire  to  come." 

A  few  days  after,  Gerty  went  with  True  to  see  Miss  Graham ; 
but  the  housekeeper,  whom  they  met  in  the  hall,  told  them  that 
she  was  ill  and  could  see  no  one.  So  they  went  away  full  of 
disappointment  and  regret. 

It  proved  afterwards  that  Emily  took  a  severe  cold  the  day 
she  sat  so  long  in  the  church,  and  was  suffering  with  it  when 
they  called;  but  though  confined  to  her  room,  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  a  visit  from  Gerty,  and  was  sorry  and  grieved 
that  Mrs.  Ellis  should  have  sent  them  away  so  abruptly. 

One  Saturday  evening,  when  Willie  was  present,  True 
broached  the  subject  of  Gerty 's  going  to  school.  Gerty  herself 
was  very  much  disgusted  with  the  idea,  but  it  met  with  Wil 
lie's  warm  approbation;  and  when  Gerty  learned  that  Miss  Gra 
ham  also  wished  it,  she  consented,  though  rather  reluctantly, 
to  begin  the  next  week,  and  try  how  she  liked  it.  So,  on  the 
following  Monday,  Gerty  accompanied  True  to  one  of  the  pri 
mary  schools,  was  admitted,  and  her  education  commenced. 
When  Willie  came  home  the  next  Saturday,  he  rushed  into 
True's  room,  full  of  eagerness  to  hear  how  Gerty  liked  going  to 
school.  He  found  her  seated  at  the  table,  with  her  spelling 
book;  and  as  soon  as  he  entered,  she  exclaimed,  "0,  Willie! 
Willie !  come  and  hear  me  read !  " 

Her  performance  could  not  properly  be  called  reading.  She 
had  not  got  beyond  the  alphabet,  and  a  few  syllables  which  she 
had  learned  to  spell ;  but  Willie  bestowed  upon  her  much  well- 
merited  praise,  for  she  had  really  been  very  diligent.  He  was 
astonished  to  hear  that  Gerty  liked  going  to  school,  liked  the 
teacher  and  the  scholars,  and  had  a  fine  time  at  recess.  He  had 
fully  expected  that  she  would  dislike  the  whole  business,  and 
very  probably  go  into  tantrums  about  it,  —  which  was  the  ex 
pression  he  used  to  denote  her  fits  of  ill  temper.  On  the  con 
trary,  everything,  thus  far,  had  gone  well,  and  Gerty  had  never 
looked  so  animated  and  happy  as  she  did  this  evening.  Willie 
promised  to  assist  her  in  her  studies;  and  the  two  children's 
literary  plans  soon  became  as  high-flown  as  if  one  had  been  a 
poet-laureate  and  the  other  a  philosopher. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  all  appeared  to  go  on  smoothly. 
Gerty  went  regularly  to  school,  and  continued  to  make  rapid 
progress.  Every  Saturday  Willie  heard  her  read  and  spell, 


68  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

assisted,  praised,  and  encouraged  her.  He  had,  however,  a 
shrewd  suspicion  that,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  she  had  come 
near  having  a  brush  with  some  large  girls,  for  whom  she  began 
to  show  symptoms  of  dislike.  Whatever  the  difficulty  origi 
nated  in,  it  soon  reached  a  crisis. 

One  day,  when  the  children  were  assembled  in  the  school 
yard  during  recess,  Gerty  caught  sight  of  True  in  his  working- 
dress,  just  passing  down  the  street,  with  his  ladder  and  lamp- 
filler.  Shouting  and  laughing,  she  bounded  out  of  the  yard, 
pursued  and  overtook  him.  She  came  back  in  a  few  minutes 
seeming  much  delighted  at  the  unexpected  rencounter,  and  ran 
into  the  yard  out  of  breath,  and  full  of  happy  excitement. 
The  troop  of  large  girls,  whom  Gerty  had  already  had  some 
reason  to  distrust,  had  been  observing  her,  and  as  soon  as  she 
returned  one  of  them  called  out,  saying:  — 

"Who's  that  man?" 

"That 's  my  Uncle  True,"  said  Gerty. 

"Your  what?" 

"My  uncle,  Mr.  Flint,  that  I  live  with." 

"  So  you  belong  to  him,  do  you  ?  "  said  the  girl,  in  an  insolent 
tone  of  voice.  "Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  said  Gerty  fiercely. 

"Ugh!  Before  I'd  live  with  him!"  said  the  girl,  "Old 
Smutty ! " 

The  others  caught  it  up,  and  the  laugh  and  epithet  Old 
Smutty  circulated  freely  in  the  corner  of  the  yard  where  Gerty 
was  standing. 

Gerty  was  furious.  Her  eyes  glistened,  she  doubled  her  lit 
tle  fist,  and  without  hesitation  came  down  in  battle  upon  the 
crowd.  But  they  were  too  many  for  her,  and,  helpless  as  she 
was  with  passion,  they  drove  her  out  of  the  yard.  She  started 
for  home  on  a  full  run,  screaming  with  all  her  might. 

As  she  flew  along  the  sidewalk,  she  brushed  roughly  against 
a  tall  and  rather  stiff-looking  lady,  who  was  walking  slowly  in 
the  same  direction,  with  another  and  much  smaller  person  lean 
ing  on  her  arm. 

"Bless  me!"  said  the  tall  lady,  who  had  almost  lost  her 
equilibrium  from  her  fright  and  the  suddenness  of  the  shock. 
"  Why,  you  horrid  little  creature !  "  As  she  spoke,  she  grasped 
Gerty  by  the  shoulder,  and,  before  the  child  could  break  away, 
succeeded  in  giving  her  a  slight  shake.  This  served  to  increase 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  69 

Gerty's  anger,  and,  her  speed  gaining  in  proportion,  it  was  but 
a  few  minutes  before  she  was  at  home,  crouched  in  a  corner  of 
True's  room  behind  the  bed,  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  as  usual 
on  such  occasions  covered  with  both  her  hands.  Here  she  was 
free  to  cry  as  loud  as  she  pleased;  for  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  gone 
out,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  hear  her,  —  a  privi 
lege,  indeed,  of  which  she  fully  availed  herself. 

But  she  had  not  had  time  to  indulge  long  in  her  tantrum, 
when  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  yard  closed  with  a  bang,  and 
footsteps  were  heard  coming  towards  Mr.  Flint's  door.  Gerty's 
attention  was  arrested,  for  she  knew  by  the  sound  that  it  was 
the  step  of  a  stranger  who  was  approaching.  With  a  strong 
effort  she  succeeded,  after  one  or  two  convulsive  sobs,  in  so  far 
controlling  herself  as  to  keep  quiet.  There  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  but  Gerty  did  not  reply  to  it,  remaining  in  her  position 
concealed  behind  the  bed.  The  knock  was  not  repeated,  but 
the  stranger  lifted  the  latch  and  walked  in. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  one  at  home,"  said  a  female 
voice ;  "  what  a  pity !  " 

"Isn't  there?  I'm  sorry,"  replied  another,  in  the  sweet 
musical  tones  of  Miss  Graham. 

Gerty  knew  the  voice  at  once. 

"I  thought  you  'd  better  not  come  here  yourself,"  rejoined 
the  first  speaker,  who  was  no  other  than  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  iden 
tical  lady  whom  Gerty  had  so  frightened  and  disconcerted. 

"0,  I  don't  regret  coming,"  said  Emily.  "You  can  leave 
me  here  while  you  go  to  your  sister's,  and  very  likely  Mr. 
Flint  or  the  little  girl  will  come  home  in  the  mean  time." 

"It  don't  become  you,  Miss  Emily,  to  be  carried  round 
everywhere,  and  left,  like  an  expressman's  parcel,  till  called 
for.  You  caught  a  horrid  cold,  that  you  're  hardly  well  of 
now,  waiting  there  in  the  church  for  the  minister;  and  Mr. 
Graham  will  be  finding  fault  next." 

"0,  no,  Mrs.  Ellis;  it's  very  comfortable  here;  the  church 
must  have  been  damp,  I  think.  Come,  put  me  in  Mr.  Flint's 
armchair,  and  I  can  make  myself  quite  contented." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  "I  '11  make  up  a  good 
fire  in  this  stove  before  I  go." 

As  she  spoke,  the  energetic  housekeeper  seized  the  poker, 
and  after  stirring  up  the  coals,  and  making  free  with  all  True's 
kindling  wood,  waited  long  enough  to  hear  the  roaring  and  see 


70  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

the  blaze;  and  then,  having  laid  aside  Emily's  cloak  and  boa, 
went  away  with  the  same  firm,  steady  step  with  which  she  had 
come,  and  which  had  so  overpowered  Emily's  noiseless  tread, 
that  Gerty  had  only  anticipated  the  arrival  of  a  single  guest. 
As  soon  as  Gerty  knew,  by  the  swinging  of  the  gate,  that  Mrs, 
Ellis  had  really  departed,  she  suspended  her  effort  at  self-con 
trol,  and  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh  gasped  out,  "0.  dear!  O, 
dear!" 

"Why,  Gerty!"  exclaimed  Emily,  "is  that  you?" 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Gerty. 

"Come  here." 

The  child  waited  no  second  bidding,  but  starting  up,  ran, 
threw  herself  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  Emily,  buried  her  face 
in  the  blind  girl's  lap,  and  once  more  commenced  crying  aloud. 
By  this  time  her  whole  frame  was  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  Why,  Gerty !  "  said  Emily ;    "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  Gerty  could  not  reply ;  and  Emily,  finding  this  to  be  the 
case,  desisted  from  her  inquiries  until  the  little  one  should  be 
somewhat  composed.  She  lifted  Gerty  up  into  her  lap,  laid 
her  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  with  her  own  handkerchief 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  face. 

Her  soothing  words  and  caresses  soon  quieted  the  child;  and 
when  she  was  calm,  Emily,  instead  of  recurring  at  once  to  the 
cause  of  her  grief,  very  judiciously  questioned  her  upon  other 
topics.  At  last,  however,  she  asked  her  if  she  went  to  school. 

"I  have  been,"  said  Gerty,  raising  her  head  suddenly  from 
Emily's  shoulder;  "but  I  won't  ever  go  again!" 

"What!  — Why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Gerty  angrily,  "I  hate  those  girls;  yes,  — 
hate  'em!  ugly  things!" 

"Gerty,"  said  Emily,  "don't  say  that;  you  shouldn't  hate 
anybody." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  said  Gerty. 

"Because  it's  wrong." 

"No,  it's  not  wrong ;  I  say  it  isn't!"  said  Gerty;  "and 
I  do  hate  'em;  and  I  hate  Nan  Grant,  and  I  always  shall! 
Don't  you  hate  anybody?" 

"No,"  answered  Emily;  "I don't." 

"Did  anybody  ever  drown  your  kitten?  Did  anybody  ever 
call  your  father  Old  Smutty?"  said  Gerty.  "If  they  had,  I 
know  you  'd  hate  'em,  just  as  I  do." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  71 

"Gerty,"  said  Emily  solemnly,  "didn't  you  tell  me,  the 
other  day,  that  you  were  a  naughty  child,  but  that  you  wished 
to  be  good,  and  would  try  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Gerty. 

"  If  you  wish  to  become  good  and  be  forgiven,  you  must  for 
give  others." 

Gerty  said  nothing. 

"Do  you  not  wish  God  to  forgive  and  love  you? " 

"  God,  that  lives  in  heaven,  —  that  made  the  stars  ? "  said 
Gerty. 

"Yes." 

"Will  he  love  me,  and  let  me  some  time  go  to  heaven?  " 

"Yes,  if  you  try  to  be  good,  and  love  everybody." 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  Gerty,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "I  can't 
do  it,  — so  I  s'pose  I  can't  go." 

Just  at  this  moment  a  tear  fell  upon  Gerty's  forehead.  She 
looked  thoughtfully  up  in  Emily's  face,  then  said:  — 

"Dear  Miss  Emily,  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  trying  to." 

"I  should  like  to  go  with  you,"  said  Gerty,  shaking  her 
head  meditatively. 

Still  Emily  did  not  speak.  She  left  the  child  to  the  work 
ing  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  Gerty  at  last,  in  the  lowest  whisper, 
"I  mean  to  try,  but  I  don't  think  I  can." 

"  God  bless  you,  and  help  you,  my  child ! "  said  Emily,  lay 
ing  her  hand  upon  Gerty's  head. 

For  fifteen  minutes  or  more,  not  a  word  was  spoken  by 
either.  Gerty  lay  perfectly  still  in  Emily's  lap.  By  and  by 
the  latter  perceived,  by  the  child's  breathing,  that,  worn  out 
with  the  fever  and  excitement  of  all  she  had  gone  through,  she 
had  dropped  into  a  quiet  sleep.  When  Mrs.  Ellis  returned, 
Emily  pointed  to  the  sleeping  child,  and  asked  her  to  place 
her  on  the  bed.  She  did  so,  wonderingly;  and  then,  turning 
to  Emily,  exclaimed,  "Upon  my  word,  Miss  Emily,  that 's  the 
same  rude,  bawling  little  creature  that  came  so  near  being  the 
death  of  us ! "  Emily  smiled  at  the  idea  of  a  child  eight 
years  old  overthrowing  and  annihilating  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Ellis's 
inches,  but  said  nothing. 

Why  did  Emily  weep  long  that  night,  as  she  recalled  the 
scene  of  the  morning?  Why  did  she,  on  bended  knee,  wrestle 


72  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

so  vehemently  with  a  mighty  sorrow?  Why  did  she  pray  so 
earnestly  for  new  strength  and  heavenly  aid  1  Why  did  she  so 
beseechingly  ask  of  God  his  blessing  on  the  little  child  ?  Be 
cause  she  had  felt,  in  many  a  year  of  darkness  and  bereave 
ment,  in  many  an  hour  of  fearful  struggle,  in  many  a  pang  of 
despair,  how  a  temper  like  that  which  Gerty  had  this  day 
shown  might,  in  one  moment  of  its  fearful  reign,  cast  a  blight 
upon  a  lifetime,  and  write  in  fearful  lines  the  mournful  requiem 
of  earthly  joy.  And  so  she  prayed  to  Heaven  that  night  for 
strength  to  keep  her  firm  resolve,  and  aid  in  fulfilling  her  un 
dying  purpose,  to  cure  that  child  of  her  dark  infirmity. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  73 


CHAPTER   XI 

Her  influence  breathes,  and  bids  the  blighted  heart 
To  life  and  hope  from  desolation  start. 

HEMANS. 

THE  next  Sabbath  afternoon  found  Gerty  seated  on  a  cricket 
in  front  of  a  pleasant  little  wood-fire  in  Emily's  own  room. 
Her  large  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Emily's  face,  which  always 
seemed,  in  some  unaccountable  way,  to  fascinate  the  little  girl; 
so  attentively  did  she  watch  the  play  of  the  features  in  a  coun 
tenance  the  charm  of  which  many  an  older  person  than  Gerty 
had  felt,  but  tried  in  vain  to  describe.  It  was  not  beauty,  — 
at  least  not  brilliant  beauty,  — for  that  Emily  had  not  pos 
sessed,  even  when  her  face  was  illumined,  as  it  had  once  been, 
by  beautiful  hazel  eyes ;  nor  was  it  the  effect  of  what  is  usually 
termed  fascination  of  manner,  for  Emily's  manner  and  voice 
were  both  so  soft  and  unassuming  that  they  never  took  the 
fancy  by  storm.  It  was  not  compassion  for  her  blindness, 
though  so  great  a  misfortune  might  well,  and  always  did,  excite 
the  warmest  sympathy.  But  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  Emily 
was  blind.  It  was  a  fact  never  forced  upon  her  friends'  recol 
lection  by  any  repining  or  selfish  indulgence  on  the  part  of  the 
sufferer;  and  as  there  was  nothing  painful  in  the  appearance 
of  her  closed  lids,  shaded  and  fringed  as  they  were  by  her  long 
and  heavy  eyelashes,  it  was  not  unusual  for  those  immediately 
about  her  to  converse  upon  things  which  could  only  be  evident 
to  the  sense  of  sight,  and  even  direct  her  attention  to  one  object 
and  another,  quite  forgetting  for  the  moment  her  sad  depriva 
tion  ;  and  Emily  never  sighed,  never  seemed  hurt  at  their  want 
of  consideration,  or  showed  any  lack  of  interest  in  objects  thus 
shut  from  her  gaze;  but,  apparently  quite  satisfied  with  the 
description  she  heard,  or  the  pictures  which  she  formed  in  her 
imagination,  would  talk  pleasantly  and  playfully  upon  whatever 
was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  her  companions.  Some  said 
that  Emily  had  the  sweetest  mouth  in  the  world,  and  they 
loved  to  watch  its  ever-varying  expression.  Some  said  her 


74  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

chief  attraction  lay  in  a  small  dimple  in  her  right  cheek ;  others 
(and  these  were  young  girls  who  wanted  to  be  charming  them 
selves)  remarked  that  if  they  thought  they  could  make  their 
hair  wave  like  Emily's,  they  'd  braid  it  up  every  night  —  it  was 
so  becoming!  But  the  chosen  few,  who  were  capable,  through 
their  own  spirituality,  of  understanding  and  appreciating  Emily's 
character,  — the  few,  the  very  few,  who  had  known  her  strug 
gles  and  had  witnessed  her  triumphs,  —  had  they  undertaken 
to  express  their  belief  concerning  the  source  whence  she  derived 
that  power  by  which  her  face  and  voice  stole  into  the  hearts  of 
young  and  old,  and  won  their  love  and  admiration,  they  would 
have  said,  as  Gerty  did,  when  she  sat  gazing  so  earnestly  at 
Emily  on  the  very  Sunday  afternoon  of  which  we  speak,  "Miss 
Emily,  I  know  you  've  been  with  God." 

Gerty  was  certainly  a  strange  child.  All  untaught  as  she 
was,  she  had  felt  Emily's  entire  superiority  to  any  being  she 
had  ever  seen  before ;  and  yielding  to  that  belief  in  her  belong 
ing  to  an  order  above  humanity,  she  reposed  implicit  confidence 
in  what  she  told  her,  allowed  herself  to  be  guided  and  influ 
enced  by  one  whom  she  felt  loved  her  and  sought  only  her 
good;  and  as  she  sat  at  her  feet  and  listened  to  her  gentle 
voice  while  she  gave  her  her  first  lesson  upon  the  distinction 
between  right  and  wrong,  Emily,  though  she  could  not  see  the 
little  thoughtful  face  that  was  looking  up  at  her,  knew,  by  the 
earnest  attention  she  had  gained,  by  the  child's  perfect  still 
ness,  and  still  more  by  the  little  hand  which  had  sought  hers, 
and  now  held  it  tight,  that  one  great  point  was  won. 

Gerty  had  not  been  to  school  since  the  day  of  her  battle  with 
the  great  girls.  All  True's  persuasions  had  failed,  and  she 
would  not  go.  But  Emily  understood  the  child's  nature  so 
much  better  than  True  did,  and  urged  upon  her  so  much  more 
forcible  motives  than  the  old  man  had  thought  of  employing, 
that  she  succeeded  where  he  had  failed.  Gerty  considered 
that  her  old  friend  had  been  insulted,  and  that  was  the  chief 
cause  of  indignation  with  her;  but  Emily  placed  the  matter  in 
a  different  light,  and  convincing  her  at  last  that,  if  she  loved 
Uncle  True,  she  would  show  it  much  better  by  obeying  his 
wishes  than  by  retaining  her  foolish  anger,  she  finally  obtained 
Gerty 's  promise  that  she  would  go  to  school  the  next  morn 
ing.  She  also  advised  her  how  to  conduct  herself  towards  the 
scholars  whom  she  so  much  disliked,  and  gave  her  some  simple 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  75 

directions  with  regard  to  her  behavior  the  next  day ;  telling  her 
that  perhaps  Mr.  Flint  would  go  with  her,  make  suitable  apolo 
gies  to  the  teacher  for  her  absence,  and  that  in  such  case  she 
would  have  no  further  trouble. 

The  next  morning  True,  much  pleased  that  Gerty's  repug 
nance  to  the  school  was  at  last  overcome,  went  with  her,  and, 
inquiring  for  the  teacher  at  the  door,  stated  the  case  to  her  in 
his  blunt,  honest  way,  and  then  left  Gerty  in  her  special 
charge. 

Miss  Browne,  who  was  a  young  woman  of  good  sense  and 
good  feelings,  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light;  and  taking 
an  opportunity  to  speak  privately  to  the  girls  who  had  excited 
Gerty's  temper  by  their  rudeness,  made  them  feel  so  ashamed 
of  their  conduct  that  they  no  longer  molested  the  child;  and 
as  Gerty  soon  after  made  friends  with  one  or  two  quiet  children 
of  her  own  age,  with  whom  she  played  in  recess,  she  got  into 
no  more  such  difficulties. 

The  winter  passed  away.  The  pleasant,  sunny  spring  days 
came,  days  when  Gerty  could  sit  at  open  windows,  or  on  the 
doorstep,  when  birds  sang  in  the  morning  among  the  branches 
of  an  old  locust-tree  that  grew  in  the  narrow  yard,  and  the  sun 
at  evening  threw  bright  rays  across  True's  great  room,  and 
Gerty  could  see  to  read  almost  until  bedtime.  She  had  been 
to  school  steadily  all  winter,  and  had  improved  as  rapidly  as 
most  intelligent  children  do,  who  are  first  given  the  opportu 
nity  to  learn  at  an  age  when,  full  of  ambition,  the  mind  is  most 
fertile  and  capable  of  progress.  She  was  looking  healthy  and 
well;  her  clothes  were  clean  and  neat,  for  her  wardrobe  was 
well  stocked  by  Emily,  and  the  care  of  it  superintended  by 
Mrs.  Sullivan.  She  was  bright  and  happy  too,  and  tripped 
round  the  house  so  joyously  and  lightly,  that  True  declared  his 
birdie  knew  not  what  it  was  to  touch  her  heel  to  the  ground, 
but  flew  about  on  the  tips  of  her  toes. 

The  old  man  could  not  have  loved  the  little  adopted  one 
better  had  she  been  his  own  child;  and  as  he  sat  by  her  side 
on  the  wide  settle,  which  when  the  warm  weather  came  was 
moved  outside  the  door,  and  listened  patiently  and  attentively 
while  she  read  aloud  to  him  story  after  story  of  little  girls  who 
never  told  lies,  boys  who  always  obeyed  their  parents,  or  more 
frequently  still,  of  the  child  who  knew  how  to  keep  her  temper, 
they  seemed,  as  indeed  they  were,  most  suitable  companions  for 


76  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

each  other.  The  old  man's  interest  in  the  story-books,  which 
were  provided  by  Emily,  and  read  and  re-read  by  Gerty,  was 
as  keen  and  unflagging  as  if  he  had  been  a  child  himself;  and 
he  would  sit  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  hearing  the  simple 
stories,  laughing  when  Gerty  laughed,  sympathizing  as  fully  and 
heartily  as  she  did  in  the  sorrows  of  her  little  heroines,  and 
rejoicing  with  her  in  the  final  triumph  of  truth,  obedience, 
and  patience. 

Emily  knew  the  weight  that  such  tales  often  carried  with 
them  to  the  hearts  of  children,  and  most  carefully  and  judi 
ciously  did  she  select  books  for  Gerty.  Gerty 's  life  was  now 
as  happy  and  prosperous  as  it  had  once  been  wretched  and 
miserable.  Six  months  before  she  had  felt  herself  all  alone, 
unloved,  uncared  for.  Now  she  had  many  friends,  and  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  thought  of,  provided  for,  and  caressed.  All 
the  days  in  the  week  were  joyous;  but  Saturday  and  Sunday 
were  marked  days  with  her,  as  well  as  with  Mrs.  Sullivan;  for 
Saturday  brought  Willie  home  to  hear  her  recite  her  lessons, 
walk,  laugh,  and  play  with  her.  He  had  so  many  pleasant 
things  to  tell,  he  was  so  full  of  life  and  animation,  so  ready  to 
enter  into  all  her  plans,  and  in  every  way  promote  her  amuse 
ment,  that  on  Monday  morning  she  began  to  count  the  days 
until  Saturday  would  come  again.  Then  if  anything  went 
wrong  or  got  out  of  order,  —  if  the  old  clock  stopped,  or  her 
toys  got  broken,  or  worse  still,  if  her  lessons  troubled,  or  any 
little  childish  grief  oppressed  her,  —  Willie  knew  how  to  put 
everything  right,  to  help  her  out  of  every  difficulty.  So  Wil 
lie's  mother  looked  not  more  anxiously  for  his  coming  than 
Gerty  did. 

Sunday  afternoon  Gerty  always  spent  with  Emily,  in  Emily's 
own  room,  listening  to  her  sweet  voice,  and  half-unconsciously 
imbibing  a  portion  of  her  sweet  spirit.  Emily  preached  no 
germons,  nor  did  she  weary  the  child  with  exhortations  and 
precepts.  Indeed,  it  did  not  occur  to  Gerty  that  she  went 
there  to  be  taught  anything;  but  simply  and  gradually  the 
blind  girl  imparted  light  to  the  child's  dark  soul,  and  the  truths 
that  make  for  virtue,  the  lessons  that  are  divine,  were  implanted 
in  her  so  naturally,  and  yet  so  forcibly,  that  she  realized  not 
the  work  that  was  going  on ;  but  long  after,  —  when  goodness 
had  grown  strong  within  her  and  her  first  feeble  resistance 
of  evil,  her  first  attempts  to  keep  her  childish  resolves,  had 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  77 

matured  into  deeply  rooted  principles  and  confirmed  habits  of 
right,  —  she  felt,  as  she  looked  back  into  the  past,  that  on 
those  blessed  Sabbaths,  sitting  on  her  cricket  at  Emily's  knee, 
she  had  received  into  her  heart  the  first  beams  of  that  immortal 
light  that  never  could  be  quenched. 

f  Thus  her  silent  prayer  was  answered.  God  had  chosen  an 
earthly  messenger  to  lead  his  child  into  everlasting  peace,  —  a 
messenger  from  whose  closed  eyes  the  world's  paths  were  all 
shut  out,  but  who  had  been  so  long  treading  the  heavenly  road 
that  it  was  now  familiar  ground.  Who  so  fit  to  guide  the  little 
one  as  she,  who  with  patience  had  learned  the  way  ?  Who  to 
well  able  to  cast  light  upon  the  darkness  of  another  soul  as 
she  to  whose  own  darkened  life  God  had  lent  a  torch  divine  1 

It  was  a  grievous  trial  to  Gerty,  about  this  time,  to  learn 
that  the  Grahams  were  soon  going  into  the  country  for  the 
summer.  Mr.  Graham  owned  a  pleasant  residence  about  six 
miles  from  Boston,  to  which  he  invariably  resorted  as  soon  as 
the  planting  season  commenced;  for,  though  devoted  to  busi 
ness  during  the  winter,  he  had  of  late  years  allowed  himself 
much  relaxation  from  his  counting-room  in  the  summer;  and 
ledgers  and  day-books  were  now  soon  to  be  supplanted,  in  his 
estimation,  by  the  labors  and  delights  of  gardening.  Emily 
promised  Gerty,  however,  that  she  should  come  and  pass  a  day 
with  her  when  the  weather  was  fine,  —  a  visit  which  Gerty 
enjoyed  three  months  in  anticipation,  and  more  than  three  in 
retrospection. 

It  was  some  compensation  for  Emily's  absence  that,  as  the 
days  became  long,  Willie  was  frequently  able  to  leave  the  shop 
and  come  home  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening;  and  Willie, 
as  we  have  said,  always  knew  how  to  comfort  Gerty,  whatever 
the  trouble  might  be. 


?8  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTEE   XII 

Let  every  minute,  as  it  springs, 
Convey  fresh  knowledge  on  its  wings; 
Let  every  minute,  as  it  flies, 
Record  thee  good,  as  well  as  wise. 

COTTON. 

IT  was  one  pleasant  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  April  that 
Gerty,  who  had  been  to  see  Miss  Graham  and  bid  her  good- by 
before  her  departure  for  the  country,  stood  at  the  back  part  of 
the  yard  weeping  bitterly.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  book  and  a 
new  slate,  Emily's  parting  gifts;  but  she  had  not  removed  the 
wrapper  from  the  one,  and  the  other  was  quite  besmeared  with 
tears.  She  was  so  full  of  grief  at  the  parting  (with  her,  the 
first  of  those  many  sad  partings  life  is  so  full  of)  that  she  did 
not  hear  any  one  approach,  and  was  unconscious  of  any  one's 
presence,  until  a  hand  was  placed  upon  each  of  her  shoulders; 
and  as  she  turned  round,  she  found  herself  encircled  by  Willie's 
arms,  and  face  to  face  with  Willie's  sunny  countenance. 

"  Why,  Gerty ! "  said  he,  "  this  is  no  kind  of  a  welcome, 
when  I  've  come  home  on  a  week-night,  to  stay  with  you  all 
the  evening.  Mother  and  grandfather  are  both  gone  out  some 
where,  and  then,  when  I  come  to  look  for  you,  you  're  crying 
so  I  can't  see  your  face  through  such  oceans  of  tears.  Come, 
come !  do  leave  off;  you  don't  know  how  shockingly  you  look !  " 

"Willie! "  sobbed  she,  "do  you  know  Miss  Emily  's  gone?  " 

"  Gone  where  ?  " 

"  Way  off,  six  miles,  to  stay  all  summer ! " 

But  Willie  only  laughed.  "Six  miles!  "  said  he,  "that 's  a 
terrible  way  certainly  !  " 

"But  I  can't  see  her  any  more! "  said  Gerty. 

"You  can  see  her  next  winter,"  rejoined  Willie. 

"O,  but  that 's  so  long!  "  said  the  child. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  much  of  her  1 "  asked  Willie. 

"She  thinks  much  of  me;  she  can't  see  me,  and  she  likes 
me  better  than  anybody  but  Uncle  True." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  79 

f 

"I  don't  believe  it;  I  don't  believe  she  likes  you  half  as 
•well  as  I  do.  I  know  she  don't!  How  can  she,  when  she  's 
blind,  and  never  saw  you  in  her  life,  and  I  see  you  all  the  time, 
and  love  you  better  than  I  do  anybody  in  the  world,  except  ray 
mother?" 

"Do  you  really,  Willie?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  always  think,  when  I  come  home,  Now  I  'm 
going  to  see  Gerty;  and  everything  that  happens  all  the  week, 
I  think  to  myself —  I  shall  tell  Gerty  that." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  'd  like  me  so  well." 

"Why  not?" 

"0,  because  you're  so  handsome,  and  I  ain't  handsome  a 
bit.  I  heard  Ellen  Chase  tell  Lucretia  Davis,  the  other  day, 
that  she  thought  Gerty  Flint  was  the  worst- looking  girl  in 
school. " 

"Then  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,"  said  Willie. 
"I  guess  she  ain't  very  good-looking.  I  should  hate  the  looks 
of  her  or  any  other  girl  that  said  that." 

"0,  Willie!"  exclaimed  Gerty  earnestly,  "it's  true;  as  true 
as  can  be." 

"No,  it  ain't  true,"  said  Willie.  "To  be  sure,  you  haven't 
got  long  curls,  and  a  round  face,  and  blue  eyes,  like  Belle  Clin 
ton's,  and  nobody  'd  think  of  setting  you  up  for  a  beauty;  but 
when  you  've  been  running,  and  have  rosy  cheeks,  and  your 
great  black  eyes  shine,  and  you  laugh  so  heartily  as  you  do 
sometimes  at  anything  funny,  I  often  think  you  're  the  bright 
est-looking  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life;  and  I  don't  care  what 
other  folks  think,  so  long  as  I  like  your  looks.  I  feel  just  as 
bad  when  you  cry,  or  anything  's  the  matter  with  you,  as  if  it 
were  myself,  and  worse.  George  Bray  struck  his  little  sister 
Mary  yesterday,  because  she  tore  his  kite;  I  should  have  liked 
to  give  him  a  flogging.  I  wouldn't  strike  you,  Gerty,  if  you 
tore  all  my  playthings  to  pieces." 

Such  professions  of  affection  on  Willie's  part  were  frequent, 
and  always  responded  to  by  a  like  declaration  from  Gerty.  Nor 
were  they  mere  professions.  The  two  children  loved  each  other 
dearly.  They  were  very  differently  constituted,  for  Willie  was 
earnest,  persevering,  and  patient,  calm  in  his  temperament,  and 
equal  in  his  spirits.  Gerty,  on  the  other  hand,  excitable  and 
impetuous,  was  constantly  thrown  off  her  guard;  her  temper 
was  easily  roused,  her  spirits  variable,  her  whole  nature  sensi- 


80  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

tive  to  the  last  degree.  Willie  was  accustomed  to  be  loved, 
expected  to  be  loved,  and  was  loved  by  everybody.  Gerty  had 
been  an  outcast  from  all  affection,  looked  not  for  it,  and,  ex 
cept  under  favorable  circumstances  and  by  those  who  knew  her 
well,  did  not  readily  inspire  it.  But  that  they  loved  each  other 
there  could  be  no  doubt;  and  if  in  the  spring  the  bond  be 
tween  them  was  already  strong,  autumn  found  it  cemented  by 
still  firmer  ties;  for,  during  Emily's  absence,  Willie  filled  her 
place  and  his  own  too;  and  though  Gerty  did  not  forget  her 
blind  friend,  she  passed  a  most  happy  summer,  and  continued 
to  make  such  progress  in  her  studies  at  school,  that  when 
Emily  returned  to  the  city  in  October  she  could  hardly  under 
stand  how  so  much  had  been  accomplished  in  what  had  seemed 
to  her  so  short  a  time. 

The  following  winter,  too,  was  passed  most  profitably  by 
Gerty.  Miss  Graham's  kindly  feeling  towards  her  little  pro 
tegee,  far  from  having  diminished,  seemed  to  have  been  in 
creased  by  time  and  absence,  and  Gerty 's  visits  to  Emily  be 
came  more  frequent  than  ever.  The  profit  derived  from  these 
visits  was  not  all  on  Gerty's  part.  Emily  had  been  in  the 
habit,  the  previous  winter,  of  hearing  her  read  occasionally,  that 
she  might  judge  of  her  proficiency;  now,  however,  she  discov 
ered,  on  the  first  trial,  that  the  little  girl  had  attained  to  a 
greater  degree  of  excellence  in  this  accomplishment  than  is  com 
mon  among  grown  people.  She  read  understandingly,  and  her 
accent  and  intonations  were  so  admirable  that  Emily  found  rare 
pleasure  in  listening  to  her. 

Partly  with  a  view  to  the  child's  benefit,  and  partly  for  her 
own  gratification,  she  proposed  that  Gerty  should  come  every 
day  and  read  to  her  for  an  hour.  Gerty  was  only  too  happy  to 
oblige  her  dear  Miss  Emily,  who,  in  making  the  proposal,  re 
presented  it  as  a  personal  favor  to  herself,  and  a  plan  by  which 
Gerty's  eyes  could  serve  for  them  both.  It  was  agreed  that 
when  True  started  on  his  lamp-lighting  expeditions  he  should 
take  Gerty  to  Mr.  Graham's,  and  call  for  her  on  his  return. 
Owing  to  this  arrangement,  Gerty  was  constant  and  punctual 
in  her  attendance  at  the  appointed  time;  and  none  but  those 
who  have  tried  it  are  aware  what  a  large  amount  of  reading 
may  be  accomplished  in  six  months,  if  only  an  hour  is  devoted 
to  it  regularly  each  day.  Emily,  in  her  choice  of  books,  did 
not  confine  herself  to  such  as  come  strictly  within  a  child's 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  81 

comprehension.  She  judged,  rightly,  that  a  girl  of  such  keen 
intelligence  as  Gerty  was  naturally  endowed  with,  would  suffer 
nothing  by  occasionally  encountering  what  was  beyond  her  com 
prehension  ;  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  very  effort  she  would 
be  called  upon  to  make  would  enlarge  her  capacity,  and  be  an 
incentive  to  her  genius.  So  history,  biography,  and  books  of 
travels  were  perused  by  Gerty  at  an  age  when  most  children's 
literary  pursuits  are  confined  to  stories  and  pictures.  The  child 
seemed,  indeed,  to  give  the  preference  to  this  comparatively 
solid  reading;  and,  aided  by  Emily's  .kind  explanations  and 
encouragement,  she  stored  up  in  her  little  brain  many  an  im 
portant  fact  and  much  useful  information.  At  Gerty 's  age  the 
memory  is  strong  and  retentive,  and  things  impressed  on  the 
mind  then  are  usually  better  remembered  than  what  is  learned 
in  after  years,  when  the  thoughts  are  more  disturbed  and  di 
vided. 

Her  especial  favorite  was  a  little  work  on  astronomy,  which 
puzzled  her  more  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  but  which  de 
lighted  her  in  the  same  proportion;  for  it  made  some  things 
clear,  and  all  the  rest,  though  a  mystery  still,  was  to  her  a  beau 
tiful  mystery,  and  one  which  she  fully  meant  some  time  to  ex 
plore  to  the  uttermost.  And  this  ambition  to  learn  more,  and 
understand  better  by  and  by,  was,  after  all,  the  greatest  good 
she  derived.  Awaken  a  child's  ambition,  and  implant  in  her 
a  taste  for  literature,  and  more  is  gained  than  by  years  of 
school-room  drudgery,  where  the  heart  works  not  in  unison 
with  the  head. 

From  the  time  Gerty  was  first  admitted  until  she  was  twelve 
years  old,  she  continued  to  attend  the  public  schools,  and  was 
rapidly  advanced  and  promoted;  but  what  she  learned  with 
Miss  Graham  and  acquired  by  study  with  Willie  at  home 
formed  nearly  as  important  a  part  of  her  education.  Willie,  as 
we  have  said,  was  very  fond  of  study,  and  was  delighted  at 
Gerty 's  warm  participation  in  his  favorite  pursuit.  They  were 
a  great  advantage  to  each  other,  for  each  found  encouragement 
in  the  other's  sympathy  and  cooperation.  After  the  first  year 
or  two  of  their  acquaintance,  Willie  could  not  be  properly 
called  a  child,  for  he  was  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and  beginning 
to  look  quite  manly.  But  Gerty 's  eagerness  for  knowledge 
had  all  the  more  influence  upon  him;  for  if  the  little  girl  ten 
years  of  age  was  patient  and  willing  to  labor  at  her  books  until 


82  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

after  nine  o'clock,  the  youth  of  fifteen  must  not  rub  his  eyes 
and  plead  weariness.  It  was  when  they  had  reached  these  re 
spective  years  that  they  commenced  studying  French  together. 
Willie's  former  teacher  continued  to  feel  a  kindly  interest  in 
the  boy,  who  had  long  been  his  best  scholar,  and  who  would 
certainly  have  borne  away  from  his  class  the  first  prizes  had 
not  a  higher  duty  called  him  to  inferior  labors  previous  to  the 
public  exhibition.  Whenever  he  met  him  in  the  street,  or 
elsewhere,  he  inquired  concerning  his  mode  of  life,  and  whether 
he  continued  his  studies.  Finding  that  Willie  had  considerable 
spare  time,  he  earnestly  advised  him  to  learn  the  French  lan 
guage,  —  that  being  a  branch  of  knowledge  which  would  un 
doubtedly  prove  useful  to  him,  whatever  business  he  might 
chance  to  pursue  in  life,  —  and  offered  to  lend  him  such  books 
as  he  would  need  at  the  commencement. 

Willie  availed  himself  of  his  teacher's  advice,  and  his  kind 
offer,  and  began  to  study  in  good  earnest.  When  he  was  at 
home  in  the  evening,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  into  True's 
room,  partly  for  the  sake  of  quiet  (for  True  was  a  quiet  man, 
and  had  too  great  a  veneration  for  learning  to  interrupt  the 
students  with  his  questions),  and  partly  for  the  sake  of  being 
with  Gerty,  who  was  usually,  at  that  time,  occupied  with  her 
books.  Gerty,  as  may  be  supposed,  conceived  a  strong  desire 
to  learn  French,  too.  Willie  was  willing  she  should  try,  but 
had  no  confidence  that  she  would  long  persevere.  To  his  sur 
prise,  however,  she  not  only  discovered  a  wonderful  determina 
tion,  but  a  decided  talent  for  language ;  and  as  Emily  furnished 
her  with  books  similar  to  Willie's,  she  kept  pace  with  him, 
oftentimes  translating  more  during  the  week  than  he  could 
find  time  to  do.  On  Saturday  evening,  when  they  always  had 
a  fine  study  time  together,  True  would  sit  on  his  old  settle  by 
the  fire,  watching  Willie  and  Gerty,  side  by  side,  at  the  table, 
with  their  eyes  bent  on  the  page,  which  to  him  seemed  the 
greatest  of  earthly  labyrinths.  Gerty  always  looked  out  the 
words,  in  which  employment  she  had  great  skill,  her  bright 
eyes  diving,  as  if  by  magic,  into  the  very  heart  of  the  diction 
ary,  and  transfixing  the  right  word  at  a  glance,  while  Willie's 
province  was  to  make  sense.  Almost  the  only  occasion  when 
True  was  known  to  disturb  them,  by  a  word  even,  was  when 
he  first  heard  Willie  talk  about  making  sense.  "  Making  sense, 
Willie?  "  said  the  old  man;  "is  that  what  ye  're  after?  Well, 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  83 

you  could  n't  do  a  better  business.  I  '11  warrant  you  a  market 
for  it;  there  's  want  enough  on  't  in  the  world! " 

It  was  but  natural  that,  under  such  favorable  influences  as 
Gerty  enjoyed,  with  Emily  to  advise  and  direct,  and  Willie  to 
aid  and  encourage,  her  intellect  should  rapidly  expand  and 
strengthen.  But  how  is  it  with  that  little  heart  of  hers,  that 
at  once  warm  and  affectionate,  impulsive,  sensitive,  and  pas 
sionate,  now  throbs  with  love  and  gratitude,  and  now  again 
burns  as  vehemently  with  the  consuming  fire  that  a  sense  of 
wrong,  a  consciousness  of  injury,  to  herself  or  her  friends,  would 
at  any  moment  enkindle?  Has  she,  in  two  years  of  happy 
childhood,  learned  self-control?  Has  she  also  attained  to  an 
enlightened  sense  of  the  distinction  between  right  and  wrong, 
truth  and  falsehood?  In  short,  has  Emily  been  true  to  her 
self-imposed  trust,  her  high  resolve,  to  soften  the  heart  and  in 
struct  the  soul  of  the  little  ignorant  one  ?  Has  Gerty  learned 
religion  ?  Has  she  found  out  God,  and  begun  to  walk  patiently 
in  that  path  which  is  lit  by  a  holy  light  and  leads  to  rest  ? 

She  has  begun  ;  and  though  her  footsteps  often  falter,  though 
she  sometimes  quite  turns  aside,  and,  impatient  of  the  narrow 
way,  gives  the  rein  to  her  old  irritability  and  ill  temper,  she  is 
yet  but  a  child,  and  there  is  the  strongest  foundation  for  hope 
fulness  in  the  sincerity  of  her  good  intentions,  and  the  depth 
of  her  contrition  when  wrong  has  had  the  mastery.  Emily  has 
spared  no  pains  in  teaching  her  where  to  place  her  strong  re 
liance,  and  Gerty  has  already  learned  to  look  to  higher  aid  than 
Emily's,  and  to  lean  on  a  mightier  arm. 

Miss  Graham  had  appointed  for  herself  no  easy  task,  when 
she  undertook  to  inform  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  child  utterly 
untaught  in  the  ways  of  virtue.  In  some  important  points, 
however,  she  experienced  far  less  difficulty  than  she  had  antici 
pated.  For  instance,  after  her  first  explanation  to  Gerty  of  the 
lifference  between  honesty  and  dishonesty,  the  truth  and  a  lie, 
lie  never  had  any  cause  to  complain  of  the  child,  whose  whole 
nature  was  the  vciy  reverse  of  deceptive,  and  whom  nothing  but 
extreme  fear  had  ever  driven  to  the  meanness  of  falsehood. 
If  Gerty 's  greatest  fault  lay  in  a  proud  and  easily  roused  tem 
per,  that  very  fault  carried  with  it  its  usual  accompaniment 
of  frankness  and  sincerity.  Under  almost  any  circumstances 
Gerty  would  have  been  too  proud  to  keep  back  the  truth,  even 
before  she  became  too  virtuous.  Emily  was  convinced,  before 


84  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

she  had  known  Gerty  six  months,  that  she  could  always  depend 
upon  her  word;  and  nothing  could  have  been  a  greater  encour- 
agement  to  Miss  Graham's  unselfish  efforts  than  the  knowledge 
that  truth,  the  root  of  every  holy  thing,  had  thus  easily  and 
early  been  made  to  take  up  its  abode  in  the  child.  But  this 
sensitive,  proud  temper  of  Gerty 's  seemed  an  inborn  thing; 
abuse  and  tyranny  had  not  been  able  to  crush  it;  on  the  con 
trary,  it  had  nourished  in  the  midst  of  the  unfavorable  influ 
ences  amid  which  she  had  been  nurtured.  Kindness  could 
accomplish  almost  anything  with  her,  could  convince  and  re 
strain;  but  restraint  from  any  other  source  was  unbearable, 
and  however  proper  and  necessary  a  check  it  might  be,  she 
was  always  disposed  to  resent  it.  Emily  knew  that  to  such  a 
spirit  even  parental  control  is  seldom  sufficient.  She  knew  of 
but  one  influence  that  is  strong  enough,  one  power  that  never 
fails  to  quell  and  subdue  earthly  pride  and  passion;  the  power 
of  Christian  humility,  engrafted  into  the  heart,  —  the  humility 
of  principle,  of  conscience,  —  the  only  power  to  which  native 
pride  ever  will  pay  homage. 

She  knew  that  a  command  of  almost  any  kind,  laid  upon 
Gerty  by  herself  or  Uncle  True,  would  be  promptly  obeyed ;  for 
in  either  case  the  little  girl  would  know  that  the  order  was 
given  in  love,  and  she  would  fulfil  it  in  the  same  spirit;  but 
to  provide  for  all  contingencies,  and  to  make  the  heart  right  as 
well  as  the  life,  it  was  necessary  to  inspire  her  with  a  higher 
motive  than  merely  pleasing  either  of  these  friends;  and  in 
teaching  her  the  spirit  of  her  Divine  Master,  Emily  was  making 
her  powerful  to  do  and  to  suffer,  to  bear  and  to  forbear,  when, 
depending  on  herself,  she  should  be  left  to  her  own  guidance 
alone.  How  much  Gerty  had  improved  in  the  two  years  that 
had  passed  since  she  first  began  to  be  so  carefully  instructed 
and  provided  for,  the  course  of  our  story  must  develop.  We 
cannot  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  trials  and  struggles,  the  failures 
and  victories,  that  she  experienced.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
Miss  Graham  was  satisfied  and  hopeful,  True  proud  and  over 
joyed,  while  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  even  old  Mr.  Cooper,  declared 
she  had  improved  wonderfully  in  her  behavior  and  her  looks, 
and  was  remarkably  mannerly  for  such  a  child. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  85 


CHAPTER   XIII 

No  caprice  of  mind, 

No  passing  influence  of  idle  time, 

No  popular  show,  no  clamor  from  the  crowd 

Can  move  him,  erring,  from  the  path  of  right. 

W.  G.  SIMMS, 

ONE  Saturday  evening  in  December,  the  third  winter  of 
Gerty 's  residence  \vith  True,  Willie  came  in  with  his  French 
books  under  his  arm,  and  after  the  first  salutations  were  over, 
exclaimed,  as  he  threw  the  grammar  and  dictionary  upon  the 
table,  "0,  Gerty!  before  we  begin  to  study  I  must  tell  you 
and  Uncle  True  the  funniest  thing  that  happened  to-day;  I 
have  been  laughing  so  at  home  as  I  was  telling  mother  about 
it!" 

"I  heard  you  laugh,'7  said  Gerty.  "If  I  had  not  been  so 
busy,  I  should  have  gone  into  your  mother's  room,  to  hear 
what  it  was  so  very  droll.  But,  come,  do  tell  us !  " 

"  Why,  you  will  not  think  it 's  anything  like  a  joke  when 
I  begin;  and  I  should  not  be  so  much  amused,  if  she  hadn't 
been  the  very  queerest  old  woman  that  ever  I  saw  in  my  life." 

"  Old  woman !  —  You  have  n't  told  us  about  any  old  woman !  " 

"But  I  'm  going  to,"  said  Willie.  "You  noticed  how  every 
thing  was  covered  with  ice  this  morning.  How  splendidly  it 
looked,  did  n't  it  ?  I  declare,  when  the  sun  shone  on  that  great 
elm-tree  in  front  of  our  shop,  I  thought  I  never  saw  anything 
so  handsome  in  my  life.  But  there,  that 's  nothing  to  do  with 
my  old  woman,  —  only  that  the  sidewalks  were  just  like  every 
thing  else,  a  perfect  glare." 

"I  know  it,"  interrupted  Gerty;  "I  fell  down  going  to 
school." 

"Did  you?  "  said  Willie;  "didn't  you  get  hurt?  " 

"No,  indeed.  But  go  on;  I  want  to  hear  about  your  old 
woman." 

"I  was  standing  at  the  shop-door  about  eleven  o'clock,  look 
ing  out,  when  I  saw  the  strangest- looking  figure  that  you  ever 


86  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

imagined,  coming  down  the  street.  I  must  tell  you  how  she 
was  dressed.  She  did  look  so  ridiculous !  She  had  on  some 
kind  of  a  black  silk  or  satin  gown,  made  very  scant,  and 
trimmed  all  round  with  some  brownish-looking  lace  (black,  I 
suppose  it  had  been  once,  but  it  isn't  now);  then  she  had  a 
gray  cloak,  of  some  sort  of  silk  material,  that  you  certainly 
would  have  said  came  out  of  the  ark,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a 
little  cape,  of  a  different  color,  that  she  wore  outside  of  it,  and 
which  must  have  dated  a  generation  further  back.  I  would 
not  undertake  to  describe  her  bonnet,  only  I  know  it  was  twice 
as  big  as  anybody's  else,  and  she  had  a  figured  lace  veil  thrown 
over  one  side,  that  reached  nearly  to  her  feet.  But  her  goggles 
were  the  crowner ;  such  immense,  horrid  -  looking  things  I 
never  saw!  She  had  a  work-bag,  made  of  black  silk,  with 
pieces  of  cloth  of  all  the  colors  in  the  rainbow  sewed  on  to  it 
zigzag;  then  her  pocket  handkerchief  was  pinned  to  her  bag, 
and  a  great  feather  fan  (only  think,  at  this  season  of  the  year !), 
that  was  pinned  on  somewhere  (by  a  string,  I  suppose),  and  a 
bundle  handkerchief  and  a  newspaper!  0,  gracious!  I  can't 
think  of  half  the  things;  but  they  were  all  pinned  together 
with  great  brass  pins,  and  hung  in  a  body  on  her  left  arm,  all 
depending  on  the  strength  of  the  bag-string.  Her  dress, 
though,  was  n't  the  strangest  thing  about  her.  What  made  it 
too  funny  was  to  see  her  way  of  walking;  she  looked  quite  old 
and  infirm,  and  it  was  evident  she  could  hardly  keep  her  foot 
ing  on  the  ice ;  and  yet  she  walked  with  such  a  smirk,  such  a 
consequential  little  air!  0,  Gerty,  it's  lucky  you  did  n't  see 
her;  you  'd  have  laughed  from  then  till  this  time." 

"Some  poor  crazy  crittur',  wasn't  she?  "  asked  True. 

"  0,  no !  "  said  Willie ;  "  I  don't  think  she  was ;  queer  enough, 
to  be  sure,  but  not  crazy.  Just  as  she  got  opposite  the  shop- 
door  her  feet  slipped,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew,  she  fell  flat 
on  the  sidewalk.  I  rushed  out,  for  I  thought  the  fall  might 
have  killed  the  poor  little  thing;  and  Mr.  Bray,  and  a  gentle 
man  he  was  waiting  upon,  followed  me.  She  did  appear 
stunned  at  first;  but  we  carried  her  into  the  shop,  and  she 
came  to  her  senses  in  a  minute  or  two.  Crazy,  you  asked  if 
she  were,  Uncle  True.  No,  not  she!  She's  as  bright  as  a 
dollar.  As  soon  as  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  know 
what  she  was  about,  she  felt  for  her  work-bag  and  all  its  ap 
pendages;  counted  them  up,  to  see  if  the  number  were  right, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  87 

and  then  nodded  her  head  very  satisfactorily.  Mr.  Bray 
poured  out  a  glass  of  cordial,  and  offered  it  to  her.  By  this 
time  she  had  got  her  airs  and  graces  back  again ;  so  when  he 
recommended  to  her  to  swallow  the  cordial,  she  retreated,  with 
a  little  old-fashioned  curtsey,  and  put  up  both  hands  to  express 
her  horror  at  the  idea  of  such  a  thing.  The  gentleman  that 
was  standing  by  smiled,  and  advised  her  to  take  it,  telling  her 
it  would  do  her  no  harm.  Upon  that  she  turned  round,  made 
another  curtsey  to  him,  and  answered,  in  a  little,  cracked  voice. 
4  Can  you  assure  me,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  of  candor  and  gallan 
try,  that  it  is  not  an  exhilarating  potion  1 '  The  gentleman 
could  hardly  keep  from  laughing;  but  he  told  her  it  was  no 
thing  that  would  hurt  her.  '  Then/  said  she,  '  I  will  venture 
to  sip  the  beverage ;  it  has  a  most  aromatic  fragrance. '  She 
seemed  to  like  the  taste  as  well  as  the  smell,  for  she  drank  every 
drop  of  it;  and  when  she  had  set  the  glass  down  on  the  coun 
ter,  she  turned  to  me  and  said,  *  Except  upon  this  gentleman's 
assurance  of  the  harmlessness  of  the  liquid,  I  would  not  have 
swallowed  it  in  your  presence,  my  young  master,  if  it  were 
only  for  the  example.  I  have  set  my  seal  to  no  temperance 
pledge,  but  I  am  abstemious  because  it  becomes  a  lady;  it  is 
with  me  a  matter  of  choice  —  a  matter  of  taste.'  She  now 
seemed  quite  restored,  and  talked  of  starting  again  on  her  walk ; 
but  it  really  was  not  safe  for  her  to  go  alone  on  the  ice,  and  I 
rather  think  Mr.  Bray  thought  so,  for  he  asked  her  where  she 
was  going.  She  told  him,  in  her  roundabout  way,  that  she  was 
proceeding  to  pass  the  day  with  Mistress  somebody,  that  lived 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Common.  I  touched  Mr.  Bray's 
arm,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  if  he  could  spare  me  I'd 
go  with  her.  He  said  he  shouldn't  want  me  for  an  hour;  so 
I  offered  her  my  arm,  and  told  her  I  should  be  happy  to  wait 
upon  her.  You  ought  to  have  seen  her  then !  If  I  had  been 
a  grown-up  man,  and  she  a  young  lady,  she  couldn't  have 
tossed  her  head  or  giggled  more.  But  she  took  my  arm,  and 
we  started  off.  I  knew  Mr.  Bray  and  the  gentleman  were 
laughing  to  see  us,  but  I  didn't  care;  I  pitied  the  old  lady, 
and  I  did  not  mean  she  should  get  another  tumble. 

"Every  person  we  met  stared  at  us;  and  it 's  no  wonder  they 
did,  for  we  must  have  been  a  most  absurd-looking  couple.  She 
not  only  accepted  my  offered  crook,  but  clasped  her  hands  to 
gether  round  it,  making  a  complete  handle  of  her  two  arms; 


88  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 

and  so  she  hung  on  with  all  her  might.  But  there,  I  ought 
not  to  laugh  at  the  poor  thing;  for  she  needed  somebody  to 
help  her  along,  and  I  'm  sure  she  wasn't  heavy  enough  to  tire 
me  out,  if  she  did  make  the  most  of  herself.  I  wonder  who 
she  belongs  to.  I  shouldn't  think  her  friends  would  let 
her  go  about  the  streets  so,  especially  such  walking  as  it  is 
to-day." 

"What's  her  name ?"  inquired  Gerty.  "Didn't  you  find 
out?" 

"No,"  answered  Willie;  "she  wouldn't  tell  me.  I  asked 
her;  but  she  only  said,  in  her  little,  cracked  voice  (and  here 
Willie  began  to  laugh  immoderately),  that  she  was  the  incog 
nito,  and  that  it  was  the  part  of  a  true  and  gallant  knight  to 
discover  the  name  of  his  fair  lady.  0,  I  promise  you,  she  was 
a  case !  Why,  you  never  heard  any  one  talk  so  ridiculously  as 
she  did!  I  asked  her  how  old  she  was.  Mother  says  that 
was  very  impolite,  but  it 's  the  only  uncivil  thing  I  did  or 
said,  as  the  old  lady  would  testify  herself,  if  she  were  here." 

"  How  old  is  she  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"Sixteen." 

"  Why,  Willie,  what  do  you  mean  1 " 

"That's  what  she  told  me,"  returned  Willie;  "and  a  true 
and  gallant  knight  is  bound  to  believe  his  fair  lady." 

"  Poor  body !  "  said  True ;  "  she  's  childish !  " 

"No,  she  'isn't,  Uncle  True,"  said  Willie;  "you'd  think 
so  part  of  the  time,  to  hear  her  run  on  with  her  nonsense ;  and 
then  the  next  minute  she  'd  speak  as  sensibly  as  anybody,  and 
say  how  much  obliged  she  was  to  me  for  showing  such  a  spirit 
of  conformity  as  to  be  willing  to  put  myself  to  so  much  trouble 
for  the  sake  of  an  old  woman  like  her.  Just  as  we  turned 
into  Beacon  Street,  we  met  a  whole  school  of  girls,  blooming 
beauties,  handsome  enough  to  kill,  my  old  lady  called  them; 
and  from  the  instant  they  came  in  sight  she  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted  I  should  try  to  get  away  from  her,  and  run  after 
some  of  them.  But  she  held  on  with  a  vengeance !  It 's  lucky 
I  had  no  idea  of  forsaking  her,  for  it  would  have  been  im 
possible.  Some  of  them  stopped  and  stared  at  us,  —  of  course, 
I  didn't  care  how  much  they  stared;  but  she  seemed  to  think  I 
should  be  terribly  mortified ;  and  when  we  had  passed  them  all, 
she  complimented  me  again  and  again  on  my  spirit  of  con 
formity, —  her  favorite  expression." 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  89 

Here  Willie  paused,  quite  out  of  breath.  True  clapped  him 
upon  the  shoulder.  "Good  boy,  Willie!"  said  he;  "clever 
boy!  You  always  look  out  for  the  old  folks;  and  that 's  right. 
Respect  for  the  aged  is  a  good  thing;  though  your  grandfather 
says  it 's  very  much  out  of  fashion." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  fashion,  Uncle  True;  but  I 
should  think  it  was  a  pretty  mean  sort  of  a  boy  that  would  see 
an  old  lady  get  one  fall  on  the  ice,  and  not  save  her  from 
another  by  seeing  her  safe  home." 

"Willie  's  always  kind  to  everybody,"  said  Gerty. 

"Willie's  either  a  hero,"  said  the  boy,  "or  else  he  has  got 
two  pretty  good  friends,  — I  rather  think  it 's  the  latter.  But 
come,  Gerty ;  Charles  the  XII.  is  waiting  for  us,  and  we  must 
study  as  much  as  we  can  to-night.  We  may  not  have  another 
chance  very  soon,  for  Mr.  Bray  isn't  well  this  evening;  he 
seems  threatened  with  a  fever,  and  I  promised  to  go  back  to 
the  shop  after  dinner  to-morrow.  If  he  should  be  sick,  I  shall 
have  plenty  to  do,  without  coming  home  at  all." 

"0,  I  hope  Mr.  Bray  is  not  going  to  have  a  fever,"  said 
True  and  Gerty,  in  the  same  breath. 

"He  's  such  a  clever  man! "  said  True. 

"He  's  so  good  to  you,  Willie! "  added  Gerty. 

Willie  hoped  not,  too;  but  his  hopes  gave  place  to  his  fears, 
when  he  found,  on  the  following  day,  that  his  kind  master  was 
not  able  to  leave  his  bed,  and  the  doctor  pronounced  his  symp 
toms  alarming. 

A  typhoid  fever  set  in,  which  in  a  few  days  terminated  the 
life  of  the  excellent  apothecary. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Bray  was  so  sudden  and  dreadful  a  blow 
to  Willie,  that  he  did  not  at  first  realize  the  important  bearing 
the  event  had  upon  his  own  fortunes.  The  shop  was  closed, 
the  widow  having  determined  to  dispose  of  the  stock  and  re 
move  into  the  country  as  soon  as  possible. 

Willie  was  thus  left  without  employment,  and  deprived  of 
Mr.  Bray's  valuable  recommendation  and  assistance.  His  earn 
ings  during  the  past  year  had  been  very  considerable,  and  had 
added  essentially  to  the  comfort  of  his  mother  and  grandfather, 
who  had  thus  been  enabled  to  relax  the  severity  of  their  own 
labors.  The  thought  of  being  a  burden  to  them,  even  for  a 
day,  was  intolerable  to  the  independent  and  energetic  spirit  of 
the  boy ;  and  he  earnestly  set  himself  to  work  to  obtain  another 


90  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

place.  He  commenced  by  applying  to  the  different  apotheca 
ries  in  the  city.  But  none  of  them  wanted  a  youth  of  his  age, 
and  one  day  was  spent  in  fruitless  inquiries. 

He  returned  home  at  night  disappointed,  but  not  by  any 
means  discouraged.  If  he  could  not  obtain  employment  with 
an  apothecary,  he  would  do  something  else. 

But  what  should  he  do?  That  was  the  question.  He  had 
long  talks  with  his  mother  about  it.  She  felt  that  his  talents 
and  education  entitled  him  to  fill  a  position  equal,  certainly,  to 
that  he  had  already  occupied,  and  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  his  descending  to  more  menial  service.  Willie,  without  too 
much  self-esteem,  thought  so  too.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  he 
was  capable  of  giving  satisfaction  in  a  station  which  required 
more  business  talent  than  his  situation  at  Mr.  Bray's  had  ever 
given  scope  to.  But  if  he  could  not  obtain  such  a  place  as  he 
desired,  he  would  take  what  he  could  get.  So  he  made  every 
possible  inquiry;  but  he  had  no  one  to  speak  a  good  word  for 
him,  and  he  could  not  expect  people  to  feel  confidence  in  a  boy 
concerning  whom  they  knew  nothing. 

So  he  met  with  no  success,  and  day  after  day  returned  home 
silent  and  depressed.  He  dreaded  to  meet  his  mother  and 
grandfather  after  every  fresh  failure.  The  care-worn,  patient 
face  of  the  former  turned  towards  him  so  hopefully  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  sadden  it  by  the  recital  of  any  new  disap 
pointment;  and  his  grandfather's  incredulity  in  the  possibility 
of  his  ever  having  anything  to  do  again  was  equally  tantalizing, 
so  long  as  he  saw  no  hope  of  convincing  him  to  the  contrary. 
After  a  week  or  two,  Mrs.  Sullivan  avoided  asking  him  any 
questions  concerning  the  occurrences  of  the  day ;  for  her  watch 
ful  eye  saw  how  much  such  inquiries  pained  him,  and  therefore 
she  waited  for  him  to  make  his  communications,  if  he  had  any. 

Sometimes  nothing  was  said,  on  either  side,  of  the  manner 
in  which  Willie  had  passed  his  day.  And  many  an  application 
did  he  make  for  employment,  many  a  mortifying  rebuff  did  he 
receive,  of  which  his  mother  never  knew. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  9) 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Yet  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and  fear 
Does  arbitrate  the  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  incline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear. 

COMUS. 

THIS  was  altogether  a  new  experience  to  Willie,  and  one  of 
the  most  trying  he  could  have  been  called  upon  to  bear.  But 
he  bore  it,  and  bore  it  bravely;  kept  all  his  worst  struggles 
from  his  anxious  mother  and  desponding  grandfather,  and  re 
solved  manfully  to  hope  against  hope.  Gerty  was  now  his 
chief  comforter.  He  told  her  all  his  troubles,  and  young  as 
she  was,  she  was  a  wonderful  consoler.  Always  looking  on  the 
bright  side,  always  prophesying  better  luck  to-morrow,  she  did 
much  towards  keeping  up  his  hopes  and  strengthening  his  reso 
lutions.  Gerty  was  so  quick,  sagacious,  and  observing,  that 
she  knew  more  than  most  children  of  the  various  ways  in  which 
things  are  often  brought  about;  and  she  sometimes  made  valu 
able  suggestions  to  Willie,  of  which  he  gladly  availed  himself. 
Among  others,  she  one  day  asked  him  if  he  had  applied  at  the 
intelligence  offices.  He  had  never  thought  of  it,  —  wondered 
he  had  not,  but  would  try  the  plan  the  very  next  day.  He 
did  so,  and  for  a  time  was  buoyed  up  with  the  hopes  held  out 
to  him ;  but  they  proved  fleeting,  and  he  was  ^now  almost  in 
despair,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  an  advertisement  in  a  news 
paper,  which  seemed  to  afford  still  another  chance.  He  showed 
the  notice  to  Gerty.  It  was  just  the  thing.  He  had  only  to 
apply;  he  was  the  very  boy  that  man  wanted, — just  fifteen, 
smart,  capable,  and  trustworthy,  and  would  like,  when  he  had 
learned  the  business,  to  go  into  partnership.  That  was  what 
was  required,  and  Willie  was  the  very  person,  she  was  sure. 

Gerty  was  so  sanguine,  that  Willie  presented  himself  the 
next  day  at  the  place  specified,  with  a  more  eager  countenance 
than  he  had  ever  yet  worn.  The  gentleman,  a  sharp-looking 
man,  with  very  keen  eyes,  talked  with  him  some  time,  asked 
a  great  many  questions,  made  the  boy  very  uncomfortable  by 


92  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

hinting  his  doubts  about  his  capability  and  honesty,  and  finally 
wound  up  by  declaring  that,  under  the  most  favorable  circum 
stances,  and  with  the  very  best  recommendations,  he  could  not 
think  of  engaging  with  any  young  man,  unless  his  friends  were 
willing  to  take  some  interest  in  the  concern,  and  invest  a  small 
amount  on  his  account. 

This,  of  course,  made  the  place  out  of  the  question  for  Wil 
lie,  even  if  he  had  liked  the  man  —  which  he  did  not,  for  he 
felt  in  his  heart  that  he  was  a  knave,  or  not  many  degrees  re 
moved  from  one. 

Until  now  he  had  never  thought  of  despairing;  but  when 
he  went  home  after  this  last  interview,  it  was  with  such  a  heavy 
heart  that  it  seemed  to  him  utterly  impossible  to  meet  his 
mother,  and  so  he  went  directly  to  True's  room.  It  was  the 
night  before  Christmas.  True  had  gone  out,  and  Gerty  was 
alone.  There  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  stove,  and  the  room 
was  dimly  lighted  by  the  last  rays  of  the  winter  sunset,  and  by 
the  glare  of  the  coals,  seen  through  one  of  the  open  doors  of 
the  stove. 

Gerty  was  engaged  in  stirring  up  an  Indian  cake  for  tea,  — 
one  of  the  few  branches  of  the  cooking  department  in  which 
she  had  acquired  some  little  skill.  She  was  just  coming  from 
the  pantry,  with  a  scoop  full  of  meal  in  her  hand,  when  Willie 
entered  at  the  opposite  door.  The  manner  in  which  he  tossed 
his  cap  upon  the  settle,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  leaned 
his  head  upon  both  his  hands,  betrayed  at  once  to  Gerty  the 
defeat  the  poor  boy  had  met  with  in  this  last  encounter  with 
ill  fate.  It  was  so  unlike  Willie  to  come  in  without  even 
speaking,  it  was  such  a  strange  thing  to  see  his  bright  young 
head  bowed  down  with  care,  and  his  elastic  figure  looking  tired 
and  old,  that  Gerty  knew  at  once  his  brave  heart  had  given 
way.  She  laid  down  the  scoop,  and  walking  softly  and  slowly 
up  to  him,  touched  his  arm  with  her  hand,  and  looked  up  anx 
iously  into  his  face.  Her  sympathetic  touch  and  look  were 
more  than  he  could  bear.  He  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  and 
in  a  minute  more  Gerty  heard  great  heavy  sobs,  each  one  of 
which  sank  deep  into  her  soul.  She  often  cried  herself,  —  it 
seemed  only  natural ;  but  Willie,  —  the  laughing,  happy,  light- 
hearted  Willie, — she  had  never  seen  him  cry;  she  didn't 
know  he  could.  She  crept  up  on  the  rounds  of  his  chair,  and 
putting  her  arm  round  his  neck  whispered :  — 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  93 

"I  shouldn't  mind,  Willie,  if  I  didn't  get  the  place.  I 
don't  believe  it 's  a  good  place." 

"I  don't  believe  it  is  either,"  said  Willie,  lifting  up  his 
head;  "but  what  shall  I  do?  I  can't  get  any  place,  and  I 
can't  stay  here  doing  nothing." 

"We  like  to  have  you  at  home,"  said  Gerty. 

"It's  pleasant  enough  to  be  at  home.  I  was  always  glad 
enough  to  come  when  I  lived  at  Mr.  Bray's,  and  was  earning 
something,  and  could  feel  as  if  anybody  was  glad  to  see  me." 

"Everybody  is  glad  to  see  you  now." 

"But  not  as  they  were  then,"  said  WTillie  rather  impatiently. 
"Mother  always  looks  as  if  she  expected  to  hear  I'd  got 
something  to  do;  and  grandfather,  I  believe,  never  thought 
I  should  be  good  for  much;  and  now,  just  as  I  was  begin 
ning  to  earn  something,  and  be  a  help  to  them,  I  've  lost  my 
chance ! " 

"But  that  ain't  your  fault,  Willie;  you  couldn't  help  Mr. 
Bray's  dying.  I  shouldn't  think  Mr.  Cooper  would  blame 
you  for  not  having  anything  to  do  now." 

"He  don't  blame  me;  but  if  you  were  in  my  place  you'd 
feel  just  as  I  do,  to  see  him  sit  in  his  armchair  evenings,  and 
groan  and  look  up  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  It 's  you  I  'm 
groaning  about. '  He  thinks  this  is  a  dreadful  world,  and  that 
he  's  never  seen  any  good  luck  in  it  himself;  so  I  suppose  he 
thinks  I  never  shall." 

"/  think  you  will,"  said  Gerty.  "I  think  you'll  be  rich, 
some  time  —  and  then  won't  he  be  astonished?" 

"0  Gerty!  you're  a  nice  child,  and  think  I  can  do  any 
thing.  If  ever  I  am  rich,  I  promise  to  go  shares  with  you ; 
but,"  added  he  despondingly,  "'t ain't  so  easy.  I  used  to 
think  I  could  make  money  when  I  grew  up;  but  it's  pretty 
slow  business." 

Here  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaning  down  upon  the  table 
again  and  giving  himself  up  to  melancholy,  but  Gerty  caught 
hold  of  his  hands.  "Come,"  said  she,  "Willie.  Don't  think 
any  more  about  it.  People  have  troubles  always,  but  they  get 
over  'em ;  perhaps  next  week  you  '11  be  in  a  better  shop  than 
Mr.  Bray's,  and  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  ever.  Do  you  know," 
said  she,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject  (a  species  of  tact 
which  children  understand  as  well  as  grown  people),  "it 's  just 
two  years  to-night  since  I  came  here  ? " 


94  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Willie.  "  Did  Uncle  True  bring  you  home 
with  him  the  night  before  Christmas  1  " 

"Yes." 

"Why,  that  was  Santa  Glaus  carrying  you  to  good  things, 
instead  of  bringing  good  things  to  you,  wasn't  it? " 

Gerty  did  not  know  anything  about  Santa  Glaus,  that  special 
friend  of  children ;  and  Willie,  who  had  only  lately  read  about 
him  in  some  book,  undertook  to  tell  her  what  he  knew  of  the 
veteran  toy  dealer. 

Finding  the  interest  of  the  subject  had  engaged  his  thoughts 
in  spite  of  himself,  Gerty  returned  to  her  cooking,  listening 
attentively,  however,  to  his  story,  while  she  stirred  up  the 
corn-cake.  When  he  had  finished,  she  was  just  putting  her 
cake  in  the  oven ;  and  as  she  sat  on  her  knee  by  the  stove, 
swinging  the  handle  of  the  oven  door  in  her  hand,  her  eyes 
twinkled  with  such  a  merry  look  that  Willie  exclaimed,  "What 
are  you  thinking  of,  Gerty,  that  makes  you  look  so  sly  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  Santa  Glaus  would  come  for 
you  to-night.  If  he  comes  for  folks  that  need  something,  I 
expect  he  '11  come  for  you,  and  carry  you  to  some  place  where 
you  '11  have  a  chance  to  grow  rich." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Willie,  "he  '11  clap  me  into  his  bag,  and 
trudge  off  with  me  as  a  prest,nt  to  somebody,  —  some  old 
Croesus,  that  will  give  me  a  fortune  for  the  asking.  I  do  hope 
he  will;  for  if  I  don't  get  something  to  do  before  New  Year, 
I  shall  give  up  in  despair." 

True  now  came  in,  and  interrupted  the  children's  conversa 
tion  by  the  display  of  a  fine  turkey,  a  Christmas  present  from 
Mr.  Graham.  He  had  also  a  book  for  Gerty,  a  gift  from 
Emily. 

"Isn't  that  queer  1"  exclaimed  Gerty.  "Willie  was  just 
saying  you  were  my  Santa  Glaus,  Uncle  True ;  and  I  do  believe 
you  are."  As  she  spoke  she  opened  the  book,  and  in  the 
frontispiece  was  a  portrait  of  that  individual.  "It  looks  like 
him,  Willie;  I  declare  it  does!"  shouted  she;  "a  fur  cap,  a 
pipe,  and  just  such  a  pleasant  face!  O!  Uncle  True,  if  you 
only  had  a  sack  full  of  toys  over  your  shoulder,  instead  of  your 
lantern  and  that  great  turkey,  you  would  be  a  complete  Santa 
Glaus.  Haven't  you  got  anything  for  Willie,  Uncle  True?  " 

"Yes,  I  've  got  a  little  something;  but  I  'm  afeared  he  won't 
think  much  on  't.  It 's  only  a  bit  of  a  note." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  95 

"A  note  for  me?"  inquired  Willie.  "Who  can  it  be 
from  1 » 

"Can't  say,"  said  True,  fumbling  in  his  great  pockets; 
"only  just  round  the  corner  I  met  a  man  who  stopped  me  to 
inquire  where  Mis'  Sullivan  lived.  I  told  him  she  lived  jist 
here,  and  I  'd  show  him  the  house.  When  he  saw  I  belonged 
here  too,  he  give  me  this  little  scrap  o'  paper,  and  asked  me  to 
hand  it  over,  as  it  was  directed  to  Master  William  Sullivan. 
I  s'pose  that 's  you,  ain't  it?  " 

He  now  handed  Willie  the  slip  of  paper;  and  the  boy,  tak 
ing  True's  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  holding  the  note  up  to  the 
light,  read  aloud :  — 

"K.  H.  Clinton  would  like  to  see  William  Sullivan  on 
Thursday  morning,  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  at  No. 
13  _  -Wharf." 

Willie  looked  up  in  amazement.  "  What  does  it  mean  1  " 
said  he;  "I  don't  know  any  such  person." 

"I  know  who  he  is,"  said  True;  "why,  it 's  he  as  lives  in 

the  great  stone  house  in Street.  He  's  a  rich  man,  and 

that 's  the  number  of  his  store  —  his  counting-room,  rather,  — 
on Wharf." 

"What,  father  to  those  pretty  children  we  used  to  see  in  the 
window  ? " 

"The  very  same." 

"What  can  he  want  of  me ?  " 

"Very  like  he  wants  your  sarvices,"  suggested  True. 

"Then  it's  a  place!"  cried  Gerty,  "a  real  good  one,  and 
Santa  Claus  came  and  brought  it !  I  said  he  would !  0  Wil 
lie,  I  'm  so  glad!  " 

Willie  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  not.  It  was  such 
a  strange  message,  coming  too  from  an  utter  stranger.  He  could 
not  but  hope,  as  Gerty  and  True  did,  that  it  might  prove  the 
dawning  of  some  good  fortune;  but  he  had  reasons,  of  which 
they  were  not  aware,  for  believing  that  no  offer  from  this  quar 
ter  could  be  available  to  him,  and  therefore  made  them  both 
promise  to  give  no  hint  of  the  matter  to  his  mother  or  Mr. 
Cooper. 

On  Thursday,  which  was  the  next  day  but  one,  being  the 
day  after  Christmas,  Willie  presented  himself  at  the  appointed 
time  and  place.  Mr.  Clinton,  a  gentlemanly  man,  with  a 
friendly  countenance,  received  him  very  kindly,  asked  him  but 


96  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

few  questions,  and  did  not  even  mention  such  a  thing  as  a  re 
commendation  from  his  former  employer;  but  telling  him  that 
he  was  in  want  of  a  young  man  to  fill  the  place  of  junior  clerk 
in  his  counting-room,  offered  him  the  situation.  Willie  hesi 
tated;  for  though  the  offer  was  most  encouraging  to  his  future 
prospects,  Mr.  Clinton  made  no  mention  of  any  salary;  and 
that  was  a  thing  the  youth  could  not  dispense  with.  Seeing 
that  he  was  undecided,  Mr.  Clinton  said,  "Perhaps  you  do  not 
like  my  proposal,  or  have  already  made  some  other  engage 
ment.  " 

"]S"o,  indeed,"  answered  Willie  quickly.  "You  are  very 
kind  to  feel  so  much  confidence  in  a  stranger  as  to  be  willing  to 
receive  me,  and  your  offer  is  a  most  unexpected  and  welcome 
one ;  but  I  have  been  in  a  retail  store,  where  I  obtained  regular 
earnings,  which  were  very  important  to  my  mother  and  grand 
father.  I  had  far  rather  be  in  a  counting-room  like  yours,  sir, 
and  I  think  I  might  learn  to  be  of  use ;  but  I  know  there  are 
numbers  of  boys,  sons  of  rich  men,  who  would  be  glad  to  be 
employed  by  you,  and  would  ask  no  compensation  for  their 
services;  so  that  I  could  not  expect  any  salary,  at  least  for 
some  years.  I  should,  indeed,  be  well  repaid,  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  by  the  knowledge  I  might  gain  of  mercantile  affairs ; 
but  unfortunately,  sir,  I  can  no  more  afford  it  than  I  could 
afford  to  go  to  college.7' 

The  gentleman  smiled.  "How  did  you  know  so  much  of 
these  matters,  my  young  friend  1 " 

"I  have  heard,  sir,  from  boys  who  were  at  school  with  me 
and  are  now  clerks  in  mercantile  houses,  that  they  received  no 
pay,  and  I  always  considered  it  a  perfectly  fair  arrangement; 
but  it  was  the  reason  why  I  felt  bound  to  content  myself  with 
the  position  I  held  in  an  apothecary's  shop,  which,  though  it 
was  not  suited  to  my  taste,  enabled  me  to  support  myself,  and 
to  relieve  my  mother,  who  is  a  widow,  and  my  grandfather, 
who  is  old  and  poor." 

"  Your  grandfather  is  —  " 

"Mr.  Cooper,  sexton  of  Mr.  Arnold's  church." 

"Aha!"  said  Mr.  Clinton;  "I  know  him." 

"What  you  say,  W'illiam,"  added  he,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"is  perfectly  true.  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  any 
salary  to  our  young  clerks,  and  are  overrun  with  applications 
at  that  rate;  but  I  have  heard  good  accounts  of  you,  my  boy 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  97 

(I  sha'n't  tell  you  where  I  had  my  information,  though  I  see 
you  look  very  curious),  and,  moreover,  I  like  your  countenance, 
and  believe  you  will  serve  me  faithfully.  So,  if  you  will  tell 
me  what  you  received  from  Mr.  Bray,  I  will  pay  you  the  same 
next  year,  and  after  that,  increase  your  salary,  if  I  find  you 
deserve  it;  and  if  you  please,  you  shall  commence  with  me 
the  first  of  January." 

Willie  thanked  Mr.  Clinton  in  the  fewest  possible  words, 
and  hastened  away. 

The  senior  clerk,  who,  as  he  leaned  over  his  accounts,  lis 
tened  to  the  conversation,  thought  the  boy  did  not  express  much 
gratitude,  considering  the  unusual  generosity  of  the  merchant's 
offer.  But  the  merchant  himself,  who  was  watching  the  boy's 
countenance,  while  despondency  gave  place  to  surprise,  and 
surprise  again  was  superseded  by  hope,  joy,  and  a  most  sincere 
thankfulness,  saw  there  a  gratitude  too  deep  to  express  itself 
in  words,  and  remembered  the  time  when  he  too,  the  only  son 
of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow,  had  come  alone  to  the  city, 
sought  long  for  employment,  and,  finding  it  at  last,  had  sat 
down  to  write  and  tell  her  how  he  hoped  soon  to  earn  enough 
for  himself  and  her. 

The  grass  had  been  growing  on  that  parent's  grave,  far  back 
in  the  country,  more  than  twenty  years,  and  the  merchant's 
face  was  furrowed  with  the  lines  of  care;  but  as  he  returned 
slowly  to  his  desk,  and  unconsciously  traced,  on  a  blank  sheet 
of  paper  and  with  a  dry  pen,  the  words  "Dear  mother,"  she 
for  the  time  became  a  living  image,  he  a  boy  again,  and  those 
invisible  words  were  the  commencement  of  the  very  letter  that 
carried  her  the  news  of  his  good  fortune. 

No.  The  boy  was  not  ungrateful,  or  the  merchant  would 
not  thus  have  been  reminded  of  the  time  when  his  own  heart 
had  been  so  deeply  stirred. 

And  the  spirits  of  those  mothers  who  have  wept,  prayed, 
and  thanked  God  over  similar  communications  from  much  loved 
sons,  may  know  how  to  rejoice  and  sympathize  with  good  little 
Mrs.  Sullivan  when  she  heard  from  Willie  the  joyful  tidings. 
Mr.  Cooper  and  Gerty  also  have  their  prototypes  in  many  an 
old  man,  whose  dim  and  world-worn  eye  lights  up  occasionally 
with  the  hope  that,  disappointed  as  he  has  been  himself,  he 
cannot  help  cherishing  for  his  grandson;  and  in  many  a  proud 
little  sister,  who  now  sees  her  noble  brother  appreciated  by 


98  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

others,  as  he  has  always  been  by  her.  Nor,  on  such  an  occa 
sion,  is  the  band  of  rejoicing  once  complete,  without  some  such 
hearty  friend  as  True  to  come  in  unexpectedly,  tap  the  boy  on 
the  shoulder,  and  exclaim,  "Ah!  Master  Willie,  they  needn't 
have  worried  about  you,  need  they?  I've  told  your  grand 
father  more  than  once  that  I  was  of  the  'pinion  'twould  all 
come  out  right  at  last." 

The  great  mystery  of  the  whole  mattei  was  Mr.  Clinton's 
ever  having  heard  of  Willie  at  all.  Mrs.  Sullivan  thought  over 
all  her  small  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  suggested  a  great  many 
impossible  ways.  But  as  with  much  conjecturing  they  came 
no  nearer  to  the  truth,  they  finally  concluded  to  do  as  Gerty 
did,  set  it  all  down  to  the  agency  of  Santa  Glaus. 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  99 


CHAPTER  XV 

Whether  the  day  its  wonted  course  renewed 
Or  midnight  vigils  wrapt  the  world  in  shade, 
Her  tender  task  assiduous  she  pursued, 
To  soothe  his  anguish,  or  his  wants  to  aid. 

BLACKLOCK. 

"I  WONDER,"  said  Miss  Peekout,  as  she  leaned  both  her 
hands  on  the  sill  of  the  front  window,  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  street,  —  a  habit  in  which  she  indulged  herself  for  about 
ten  minutes,  after  she  had  washed  up  the  breakfast  things,  and 
before  she  trimmed  the  solar  lamp,  —  "I  wonder  who  that 
slender  girl  is  that  walks  by  here  every  morning,  with  that  fee 
ble-looking  old  man  leaning  on  her  arm !  I  always  see  them 
at  just  about  this  time,  when  the  weather  and  walking  are 
good.  She  's  a  nice  child,  I  know,  and  seems  to  be  very  fond 
of  the  old  man, — probably  her  grandfather.  I  notice  she's 
careful  to  leave  the  best  side  of  the  walk  for  him,  and  she 
watches  every  step  he  takes ;  she  needs  to,  indeed,  for  he  totters 
sadly.  Poor  little  thing!  she  looks  pale  and  anxious;  I  won 
der  if  she  takes  all  the  care  of  the  old  man ! "  But  they  are 
quite  out  of  sight,  and  Miss  Peekout  turns  round  to  wonder 
whether  the  solar  lamp  doesn't  need  a  new  wick. 

"I  wonder"  said  old  Mrs.  Grumble,  as  she  sat  at  her  win 
dow,  a  little  further  down  the  street,  "if  I  should  live  to  be 
old  and  infirm  (Mrs.  Grumble  was  over  seventy,  but  as  yet 
suffered  from  no  infirmity  but  that  of  a  very  irritable  temper), 
—  I  wonder  if  anybody  would  wait  upon  me,  and  take  care  of 
me,  as  that  little  girl  does  of  her  grandfather!  No,  I'll  war 
rant  not !  Who  can  the  patient  little  creature  be  ?  " 

"There,  look,  Belle,"  said  one  young  girl  to  another,  as  they 
walked  up  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  on  their  way  to  school, 
"there's  the  girl  that  we  meet  every  day  with  the  old  man. 
How  can  you  say  you  don't  think  she  's  pretty?  I  admire  her 
looks!" 

"You  always  do  manage,  Kitty,  to  admire  people  that 
everybody  else  thinks  are  horrid  looking." 


100  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"Horrid  looking!"  replied  Kitty,  in  a  provoked  tone; 
"she's  anything  but  horrid  looking!  Do  notice  now,  Belle, 
when  we  meet  them,  she  has  the  sweetest  way  of  looking  up 
in  the  old  man's  face,  and  talking  to  him.  I  wonder  what  is 
the  matter  with  him.  Do  see  how  his  arm  shakes,  —  the  one 
that 's  passed  through  hers." 

The  two  couples  are  now  close  to  each  other,  and  they  pass 
in  silence. 

"Don't  you  think  she  has  an  interesting  face?  "  said  Kitty 
eagerly,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"She's  got  handsome  eyes,"  answered  Belle.  "I  don't  see 
anything  else  that  looks  interesting  about  her.  I  wonder  if 
she  don't  hate  to  have  to  walk  in  the  street  with  that  old  grand 
father;  trudging  along  so  slow,  with  the  sun  shining  right  in 
her  face,  and  he  leaning  on  her  arm,  and  shaking  so  he  can 
hardly  stand  on  his  feet!  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  anything." 

"Why,  Belle!"  exclaimed  Kitty,  "how  can  you  talk  so? 
I  'm  sure  I  pity  that  old  man  dreadfully." 

"Lor!"  said  Belle,  "what 's  the  use  of  pitying1?  If  you  are 
going  to  begin  to  pity,  you  '11  have  to  do  it  all  the  time. 
Look,"  —  and  here  Belle  touched  her  companion's  elbow, — 
"there  's  Willie  Sullivan,  father's  clerk;  ain't  he  a  beauty?  I 
want  to  stop  and  speak  to  him." 

But  before  she  could  address  a  word  to  him,  Willie,  who  was 
walking  very  fast,  passed  her  with  a  bow  and  a  pleasant  "  Good- 
morning,  Miss  Isabel ;  "  and  ere  she  had  recovered  from  the  sur 
prise  and  disappointment  was  some  rods  down  the  street. 

"Polite !  "  muttered  the  pretty  Isabel. 

"Why,  Belle!  do  see,"  said  Kitty,  who  was  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder,  "he  's  overtaken  the  old  man  and  my  inter 
esting  little  girl.  Look, — look!  He's  put  the' old  man's 
other  arm  through  his,  and  they  are  all  three  walking  off  to 
gether.  Isn't  that  quite  a  coincidence?" 

"Nothing  very  remarkable,"  replied  Belle,  who  seemed  a 
little  annoyed.  "I  suppose  they  are  persons  he 's  acquainted 
with.  Come,  make  haste;  we  shall  be  late  at  school." 

Reader!  Do  you  wonder  who  they  are,  the  girl  and  the  old 
man  ?  or  have  you  already  conjectured  that  they  are  no  other 
than  Gerty  and  Trueman  Flint?  True  is  no  longer  the  brave, 
strong,  sturdy  protector  of  the  feeble,  lonely  little  child.  The 
cases  are  quite  reversed.  True  has  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  His 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  IjOl. 

strength  is  gone,  his  power  even  to  walk  alone.  He  sits  ail 
day  in  his  armchair,  or  on  the  old  settle,  when  he  is  not  out 
walking  with  Gerty.  The  blow  came  suddenly,  struck  down 
the  robust  man,  and  left  him  feeble  as  a  child.  And  the  little 
stranger,  the  orphan  girl,  who,  in  her  weakness,  her  loneliness, 
and  her  poverty,  found  in  him  a  father  and  a  mother,  she  now 
is  all  the  world  to  him,  —  his  staff,  his  stay,  his  comfort,  and  his 
hope.  During  four  or  five  years  that  he  has  cherished  the  frail 
blossom,  she  has  been  gaining  strength  for  the  time  when  he 
should  be  the  leaning,  she  the  sustaining  power;  and  when  the 
time  came,  —  and  it  came  full  soon,  —  she  was  ready  to  re 
spond  to  the  call.  With  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  but  a  wo 
man's  firmness;  with  the  stature  of  a  child,  but  a  woman's 
capacity;  the  earnestness  of  a  child,  but  a  woman's  persever 
ance,  —  from  morning  till  night,  the  faithful  little  nurse  and 
housekeeper  labors  untiringly  in  the  service  of  her  first,  her 
best  friend.  Ever  at  his  side,  ever  attending  to  his  wants,  and 
yet  most  wonderfully  accomplishing  many  things  which  he 
never  sees  her  do,  she  seems,  indeed,  to  the  fond  old  man, 
what  he  once  prophesied  she  would  become,  — God's  embodied 
blessing  to  his  latter  years,  making  light  his  closing  days,  and 
cheering  even  the  pathway  to  the  grave. 

Though  disease  had  robbed  Truq's  limbs  of  all  their  power, 
the  blast  had  happily  spared  his  mind,  which  was  clear  and 
tranquil  as  ever;  while  his  pious  heart  was  fixed  in  humble 
trust  on  that  God  whose  presence  and  love  he  had  ever  acknow 
ledged,  and  on  whom  he  so  fully  relied,  that  even  in  this  bitter 
trial  he  was  able  to  say,  in  perfect  submission,  "Thy  will  not 
mine  be  done !  "  Little  did  those  who  wondered,  as  day  after 
day  they  watched  the  invalid  and  his  childish  guardian,  at  the 
patience  and  self-sacrifice  of  the  devoted  girl,  little  did  they 
understand  the  emotions  of  Gerty's  loving,  grateful  heart. 
Little  did  they  realize  the  joy  it  was  to  her  to  sustain  and  sup 
port  her  beloved  friend.  Little  did  she,  who  would  have  been 
too  proud  to  walk  with  the  old  paralytic,  know  what  Gerty's 
pride  was  made  of.  She  would  have  wondered,  had  she  been 
told  that  the  heart  of  the  girl,  whom  she  would  have  pitied, 
could  she  have  spared  time  to  pity  any  one,  had  never  swelled 
with  so  fervent  and  noble  a  satisfaction  as  when,  with  the  trem 
bling  old  man  leaning  on  her  arm,  she  gloried  in  the  burden. 

The  outward  world  was  nothing  at  all  to  her.      She  cared 


1Q2 


TEE  LAMPLIGHTER 


not  for  the  conjectures  of  the  idle,  the  curious,  or  the  vain. 
She  lived  for  True  now ;  she  might  almost  be  said  to  live  in 
him,  so  wholly  were  her  thoughts  bent  on  promoting  his  happi 
ness,  prolonging  and  blessing  his  days. 

It  had  not  long  been  thus.  Only  about  two  months  previous 
to  the  morning  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  had  True  been 
stricken  down  with  this  weighty  affliction.  He  had  been  in 
failing  health,  but  had  still  been  able  to  attend  to  all  his  duties 
and  labors,  until  one  day  in  the  month  of  June,  when  Gerty 
went  into  his  room,  and  found,  to  her  surprise,  that  he  had 
not  risen,  although  it  was  much  later  than  his  usual  hour.  On 
going  to  the  bedside  and  speaking  to  him,  she  perceived  that 
he  looked  strangely,  and  had  lost  the  power  of  replying  to  her 
questions.  Bewildered  and  frightened,  she  ran  to  call  Mrs. 
Sullivan.  A  physician  was  summoned,  the  case  pronounced 
one  of  paralysis,  and  for  a  time  there  seemed  reason  to  fear  that 
it  would  prove  fatal.  He  soon,  however,  began  to  amend,  re 
covered  his  speech,  and  in  a  week  or  two  was  well  enough  to 
walk  about  with  Gerty 's  assistance. 

The  doctor  had  recommended  as  much  gentle  exercise  as  pos 
sible  ;  and  every  pleasant  morning,  before  the  day  grew  warm, 
Gerty  presented  herself,  bonneted  and  equipped  for  those  walks 
which,  unknown  to  her,  excited  so  much  observation.  She 
usually  took  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  make  such  little 
household  purchases  as  were  necessary,  that  she  might  not  be 
compelled  to  go  out  again  and  leave  True  alone,  —  that  being  a 
thing  she  as  much  as  possible  avoided  doing. 

On  the  occasion  already  alluded  to,  Willie  accompanied  them 
as  far  as  the  provision  shop,  which  was  their  destination;  and 

having  seen  True  comfortably  seated,  proceeded  to Wharf, 

while  Gerty  stepped  up  to  the  counter  to  bargain  for  the  din 
ner.  She  purchased  a  bit  of  veal  suitable  for  broth,  gazed  wish 
fully  at  some  tempting  summer  vegetables,  turned  away,  and 
sighed.  She  held  in  her  hand  the  wallet  which  contained  all 
their  money ;  it  had  now  been  in  her  keeping  for  some  weeks, 
and  was  growing  light,  so  she  knew  it  was  no  use  to  think 
about  the  vegetables ;  and  she  sighed,  because  she  remembered 
how  much  Uncle  True  enjoyed  the  green  peas  last  year. 

"How  much  is  the  meat?"  asked  she  of  the  rosy-cheeked 
butcher,  who  was  wrapping  it  up  in  a  paper. 

He  named  the  sum.     It  was  very  little;  so  little  that  it 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  103 

almost  seemed  to  Gerty  as  if  he  had  seen  into  her  purse,  and 
her  thoughts  too,  and  knew  how  glad  she  would  be  that  it  did 
not  cost  any  more.  As  he  handed  her  the  change,  he  leaned 
over  the  counter,  and  asked,  in  an  undertone,  what  kind  of 
nourishment  Mr.  Flint  was  able  to  take. 

"The  doctor  said  any  wholesome  food,"  replied  Gerty. 

"Don't  you  think  he'd  relish  some  green  peas?  I've  got 
some  first-rate  ones,  fresh  from  the  country ;  and  if  you  think 
he  'd  eat  'em,  I  should  like  to  send  you  some.  My  boy  shall 
take  round  half  a  peck  or  so,  and  I  '11  put  the  meat  right  in 
the  same  basket." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gerty;  "he  likes  green  peas." 

"Very  well,  very  well!  Then  I  '11  send  him  some  beauties," 
and  he  turned  away  to  wait  upon  another  customer  so  quick, 
that  Gerty  thought  he  did  not  see  how  the  color  came  into  her 
face  and  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  But  he  did  see,  and  that  was 
the  reason  he  turned  away  so  quickly.  He  was  a  clever  fellow, 
that  rosy-cheeked  butcher! 

True  had  an  excellent  appetite,  enjoyed  and  praised  the  din 
ner  exceedingly,  and  after  eating  heartily  of  it  fell  asleep  in  his 
chair. 

The  moment  he  awoke,  Gerty  sprung  to  his  side,  exclaiming, 
"Uncle  True,  here's  Miss  Emily!  —  here's  dear  Miss  Emily 
come  to  see  you !  " 

"  The  Lord  bless  you,  my  dear,  dear  young  lady !  "  said  True, 
trying  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  go  towards  her. 

"Don't  rise,  Mr.  Flint,  I  beg  you  will  not,"  exclaimed 
Emily,  whose  quick  ear  perceived  the  motion.  "From  what 
Gerty  tells  me,  I  fear  you  are  not  able.  Please  give  me  a 
chair,  Gerty,  nearer  to  Mr.  Flint." 

She  drew  near,  took  True's  hand,  but  looked  inexpressibly 
shocked  as  she  observed  how  tremulous  it  had  become. 

"Ah,  Miss  Emily!"  said  he;  "I'm  not  the  same  man  as 
when  I  saw  you  last;  the  Lord  has  given  me  a  warnin',  and 
I  sha'n't  be  here  long!  " 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  did  not  know  of  this!"  said  Emily.  "I 
should  have  come  to  see  you  before,  but  I  never  heard  of  your 
illness  until  to-day.  George,  my  father's  man,  saw  you  and 
Gertrude  at  a  shop  this  morning,  and  mentioned  it  to  me  as 
soon  as  he  came  out  of  town.  I  have  been  telling  this  little 
girl  that  she  should  have  sent  me  word." 


104  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

Gerty  was  standing  by  True's  chair,  smoothing  his  gray 
locks  with  her  slender  fingers.  As  Emily  mentioned  her  name, 
he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  0,  what  a  look  of  love  he  gave 
her !  Gerty  never  forgot  it. 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  he,  "'twas  no  need  for  anybody  to  be 
troubled.  The  Lord  provided  for  me,  his  own  self.  All  the 
doctors  and  nurses  in  the  land  couldn't  have  done  half  as  much 
for  me  as  this  little  gal  o'  mine.*  It  wa'n't  at  all  in  my  mind, 
some  four  or  five  years  gone,  —  when  I  brought  the  little  bare 
foot  mite  of  a  thing  to  my  home,  and  when  she  was  sick  and 
e'en  a' most  dyin'  in  this  very  room,  and  I  carried  her  in  my 
arms  night  and  day,  —  that  her  turn  would  come  so  soon.  Ah ! 
I  little  thought  then,  Miss  Emily,  how  the  Lord  would  lay  me 
low,  —  how  those  very  same  feet  would  run  about  in  my  ser 
vice,  how  her  bit  of  a  hand  would  come  in  the  dark  nights  to 
smooth  my  pillow,  and  I  'd  go  about  daytimes  leaning  on  her 
little  arm.  Truly  God's  ways  are  not  like  our  ways,  nor  his 
thoughts  like  our  thoughts." 

"0,  Uncle  True!  "  said  Gerty,  "I  don't  do  much  for  you;  I 
wish  I  could  do  a  great  deal  more.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
strong  again. " 

"I  dare  say  you  do,  my  darlin',  but  that  can't  be  in  this 
world;  you've  given  me  what's  far  better  than  strength  o' 
body.  Yes,  Miss  Emily,"  added  he,  turning  again  towards  the 
blind  girl,  "  it 's  you  we  have  to  thank  for  all  the  comfort  we 
enjoy.  I  loved  my  little  birdie ;  but  I  was  a  foolish  man,  and 
I  should  ha'  spiled  her.  You  knew  better  what  was  for  her 
good,  and  mine  too.  You  made  her  what  she  is  now,  one  of 
the  lambs  of  Christ,  a  handmaiden  of  the  Lord.  If  anybody  'd 
told  me  six  months  ago  that  I  should  become  a  poor  cripple, 
and  sit  in  my  chair  all  day,  and  not  know  who  was  going  to 
furnish  a  livin'  for  me  or  birdie  either,  I  should  ha'  said  I 
never  could  bear  my  lot  with  patience,  or  keep  up  any  heart  at 
all.  But  I  've  learned  a  lesson  from  this  little  one.  When  I 
first  got  so  I  could  speak,  after  the  shock,  and  tell  what  was  in 
my  mind,  I  was  so  mightily  troubled  a'  thinkin'  of  my  sad  case, 
and  Gerty  with  nobody  to  work  or  do  anything  for  her,  that 
I  took  on  bad  enough,  and  said,  c  What  shall  we  do  now  1  — 
what  shall  we  do  now  ?  '  And  then  she  whispered  in  my  ear. 
'  God  will  take  care  of  us,  Uncle  True ! '  And  when  I  forgot 
tlie  sayin',  and  asked,  'Who  will  feed  and  clothe  us  now?' 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  105 

she  said  again,  '  The  Lord  will  provide. '  And  in  my  deepest 
distress  of  all,  when  one  night  I  was  full  of  anxious  thoughts 
about  my  child,  I  said  aloud,  '  If  I  die,  who  will  take  care  o' 
Gerty  ? '  the  little  thing,  that  I  supposed  was  sound  asleep  in 
her  bed,  laid  her  head  down  beside  me  and  said,  *  Uncle  True, 
when  I  was  turned  out  into  the  dark  street  all  alone,  and  had 
no  friends  nor  any  home,  my  Heavenly  Father  sent  you  to  me; 
and  now,  if  he  wants  you  to  come  to  him,  and  is  not  ready  to 
take  me  too,  he  will  send  somebody  else  to  take  care  of  me  the 
rest  of  the  time  I  stay. '  After  that,  Miss  Emily,  I  gave  up 
worry  in'  any  more.  Her  words,  and  the  blessed  teachin's  of 
the  Holy  Book  that  she  reads  me  every  day,  have  sunk  deep 
into  my  heart,  and  I  'm  at  peace. 

"I  used  to  think  that,  if  I  lived  and  had  my  strength  spared 
me,  Gerty  would  be  able  to  go  to  school  and  get  a  sight  o'  larn- 
in',  for  she  has  a  nateral  lurch  for  it,  and  it  comes  easy  to  her. 
She  's  but  a  slender  child,  and  I  never  could  bear  the  thought 
of  her  bein'  driv  to  hard  work  for  a  livin' ;  she  don't  seem 
made  for  it  somehow.  I  hoped,  when  she  grew  up,  to  see  her 
a  schoolmistress,  like  Miss  Browne,  or  somethin'  in  that  line; 
but  I  've  done  bein'  vexed  about  it  now.  I  know,  as  she  says, 
it 's  all  for  the  best,  or  it  wouldn't  be." 

When  he  finished  speaking,  Gerty,  whose  face  had  been  hid 
against  his  shoulder,  looked  up  and  said  bravely,  "0,  Uncle 
True,  I  'm  sure  I  can  do  almost  any  kind  of  work.  Mrs.  Sul 
livan  says  I  sew  very  well,  and  I  can  learn  to  be  a  milliner  or 
a  dressmaker;  that  isn't  hard  work." 

"Mr.  Flint,"  said  Emily,  "would  you  be  willing  to  trust 
your  child  with  me  1  If  you  should  be  taken  from  her,  would 
you  feel  as  if  she  were  safe  in  my  charge  ? " 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  True,  "would  I  think  her  safe  in  angel 
keepin'  1  I  should  believe  her  in  little  short  o'  that,  if  she 
:ould  have  you  to  watch  over  her." 

"0,  do  not  say  that,"  said  Miss  Emily,  "or  I  shall  be  afraid 
to  undertake  so  solemn  a  trust.  I  know  too  well  that  my  want 
of  sight,  my  ill  health,  and  my  inexperience  almost  unfit  me 
for  the  care  of  a  child  like  Gerty.  But  since  you  approve  of 
the  teaching  I  have  already  given  her,  and  are  so  kind  as  to 
think  a  great  deal  better  of  me  than  I  deserve,  I  know  you  will 
at  least  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my  wish  to  be  of  use  to  her : 
and  if  it  will  be  any  comfort  to  you  to  know  that  in  case  of 


106  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

your  death  I  will  gladly  take  Gerty  to  my  home,  see  that  she 
is  well  educated,  and  as  long  as  I  live,  provide  for  and  take 
care  of  her,  you  have  my  solemn  assurance  (and  here  she  laid 
her  hand  on  his)  that  it  shall  be  done,  and  that  to  the  best  of 
my  ability  I  will  try  to  make  her  happy." 

Gerty 's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  towards  Emily,  and  fling 
her  arms  around  her  neck;  but  she  was  arrested  in  the  act,  for 
she  observed  that  True  was  weeping  like  an  infant.  In  an  in 
stant  his  feeble  head  was  resting  upon  her  bosom;  her  hand 
was  wiping  away  the  great  tears  that  had  rushed  to  his  eyes. 
It  was  an  easy  task,  for  they  were  tears  of  joy,  —  of  a  joy  that 
had  quite  unnerved  him  in  his  present  state  of  prostration  and 
weakness. 

The  proposal  was  so  utterly  foreign  to  his  thoughts  or  expec 
tations,  that  it  seemed  to  him  a  hope  too  bright  to  be  relied 
upon;  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  an  idea  occurring  to  him 
which  seemed  to  increase  his  doubts,  he  gave  utterance  to  it  in 
the  words,  "But  your  father,  Miss  Emily!  —  Mr.  Graham!  — 
he  's  partickler,  and  not  over  young  now.  I  'm  af eared  he 
wouldn't  like  a  little  gal  in  the  house." 

"My  father  is  indulgent  to  me,"  replied  Emily;  "he  would 
not  object  to  any  plan  I  had  at  heart,  and  I  have  become  so 
much  attached  to  Gertrude  that  she  would  be  of  great  use  and 
comfort  to  me.  I  trust,  Mr.  Flint,  that  you  will  recover  a 
portion  at  least  of  your  health  and  strength,  and  be  spared  to 
her  for  many  a  year  yet;  but  in  order  that  you  may  in  no  case 
feel  any  anxiety  on  her  account,  I  take  this  opportunity  to  tell 
you  that,  if  I  should  outlive  you,  she  will  be  sure  of  a  home 
with  me." 

"Ah,  Miss  Emily!"  said  the  old  man,  "my  time's  about 
out,  I  feel  right  sure  o'  that;  and  since  you  're  willin',  you  '11 
soon  be  called  to  take  charge  on  her.  I  haven't  forgot  how 
tossed  I  was  in  my  mind,  the  day  after  I  brought  her  home 
with  me,  with  thinkin'  that  p'raps  I  wasn't  fit  to  undertake 
the  care  of  such  a  little  thing,  and  hadn't  ways  to  make  her 
comfortable;  and  then,  Miss  Emily,  do  you  remember  you  said 
to  me,  *  You  've  done  quite  right;  the  Lord  will  bless  and  re 
ward  you  '  ?  I  've  thought  many  a  time  since  that  you  was  a 
true  prophet,  and  that  your  words  were,  what  I  thought  'em 
then,  a  whisper  right  from  heaven!  And  now  you  talk  o' 
doin'  the  same  thing  yourself:  and  I,  that  am  just  goin'  home 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  107 

to  God,  and  feel  as  if  I  read  his  ways  clearer  than  ever  afore, 
I  tell  you,  Miss  Emily,  that  you're  doin'  right,  too;  and  if 
the  Lord  rewards  you  as  he  has  done  me,  there  '11  come  a  time 
when  this  child  will  pay  you  back  in  love  and  care  all  you  ever 
do  for  her.  Gerty." 

"She's  not  here,"  said  Emily;  "I  heard  her  run  into  her 
own  room." 

"Poor  birdie!"  said  True,  "she  doesn't  like  to  hear  o'  my 
leavin'  her;  I  'm  sad  to  think  how  some  day  soon  she  '11  almost 
sob  her  heart  away  over  her  old  uncle.  Never  mind  now !  I 
was  goin'  to  bid  her  be  a  good  child  to  you;  but  I  think  she 
will  without  biddin' ;  and  I  can  say  my  say  to  her  another  time. 
Good-by,  my  dear  young  lady ;  "  —  for  Emily  had  risen  to  go, 
and  George,  the  man-servant,  was  waiting  at  the  door  for  her, 
—  "if  I  never  see  you  again,  remember  that  you've  made  an 
old  man  so  happy  that  he  's  nothing  in  this  world  left  to  wish 
for;  and  that  you  carry  with  you  a  dyin'  man's  best  blessin', 
and  his  prayer  that  God  may  grant  such  perfect  peace  to  your 
last  days  as  now  He  does  to  mine," 

That  evening,  when  True  had  already  retired  to  rest,  and 
Gerty  had  finished  reading  aloud  in  her  little  Bible,  as  she 
always  did  at  bedtime,  True  called  her  to  him,  and  asked  her, 
as  he  had  often  done  of  late,  to  repeat  his  favorite  prayer  for 
the  sick.  She  knelt  at  his  bedside,  and  with  a  solemn  and 
touching  earnestness  fulfilled  his  request. 

"Now,  darlin',  the  prayer  for  the  dyin';  —  isn't  there  such 
a  one  in  your  little  book  ? " 

Gerty  trembled.  There  was  such  a  prayer,  a  beautiful  one; 
and  the  thoughtful  child,  to  whom  the  idea  of  death  was  famil 
iar,  knew  it  by  heart,  —  but  could  she  repeat  the  words  ? 
Could  she  command  her  voice  ?  Her  whole  frame  shook  with 
agitation;  but  Uncle  True  wished  to  hear  it,  it  would  be  a 
comfort  to  him,  and  she  would  try.  Concentrating  all  her  en 
ergy  and  self-command,  she  began,  and  gaining  strength  as  she 
proceeded,  went  on  to  the  end.  Once  or  twice  her  voice  fal 
tered,  but  with  new  effort  she  succeeded,  in  spite  of  the  great 
bunches  in  her  throat ;  and  her  voice  sounded  so  clear  and  calm 
that  Uncle  True's  devotional  spirit  was  not  once  disturbed  by 
the  thought  of  the  girl's  sufferings;  for,  fortunately,  he  could 
not  hear  how  her  heart  beat  and  throbbed,  and  threatened  to 
burst. 


108  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

She  did  not  rise  at  the  conclusion  of  the  prayer,  —  she  could 
not,  —  but  remained  kneeling,  her  head  buried  in  the  bed 
clothes.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  solemn  stillness  in  the 
room,  then  the  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

She  looked  up. 

"You  love  Miss  Emily,  don't  you,  birdie?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"You  '11  be  a  good  child  to  her,  when  I  'm  gone?  " 

"0,  Uncle  True!"  sobbed  Gerty,  "you  mustn't  leave  me! 
I  can't  live  without  you,  dear  Uncle  True! " 

"It  is  God's  will  to  take  me,  Gerty;  he  has  always  been 
good  to  us,  and  we  mustn't  doubt  him  now.  Miss  Emily  can 
do  more  for  you  than  I  could,  and  you  '11  be  very  happy  with 
her." 

"No,  I  sha'n't  !  —  I  sha'n't  ever  be  happy  again  in  this 
world;  I  never  was  happy  until  I  came  to  you;  and  now,  if  you 
die,  I  wish  I  could  die  too ! " 

"You  mustn't  wish  that,  darlin' ;  you  are  young,  and  must 
try  to  do  good  in  the  world,  and  bide  your  time.  I  'm  an  old 
man,  and  only  a  trouble  now." 

"Iso,  no,  Uncle  True  !  "  said  Gerty  earnestly;  "you  are  not 
a  trouble,  you  never  could  be  a  trouble!  I  wish  I'd  never 
been  so  much  trouble  to  you." 

"So  far  from  that,  birdie,  God  knows  you  Jve  long  been  my 
heart's  delight!  It  only  pains  me  now  to  think  that  you  're  a 
spendin'  all  your  time,  and  slavin'  here  at  home,  instead  of 
goin'  to  school,  as  you  used  to;  but  0!  we  all  depend  on  each 
other  so!  —  first  on  God,  and  then  on  each  other!  And  that 
'minds  me,  Gerty,  of  what  I  was  goin'  to  say.  I  feel  as  if  the 
Lord  would  call  me  soon,  sooner  than  you  think  for  now;  and 
at  first  you'll  cry,  and  be  sore  vexed,  no  doubt;  but  Miss 
Emily  will  take  you  with  her,  and  she  '11  tell  you  blessed 
things  to  comfort  you,  —  how  we  shall  all  meet  again  and  be 
happy  in  that  world  where  there  's  no  partin's,  and  Willie  '11 
do  everything  he  can  to  help  you  in  your  sorrer;  and  in  time 
you  '11  be  able  to  smile  again.  At  first,  and  p'raps  for  a  long 
time,  Gerty,  you  '11  be  a  care  to  Miss  Emily,  and  she  '11  have 
to  do  a  deal  for  you  in  the  way  o'  schoolin',  clothin',  and  so 
on;  and  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is,  that  Uncle  True  expects 
you  '11  be  as  good  as  can  be,  and  do  just  what  Miss  Emily  says; 
and  by  and  by  maybe,  when  you  're  bigger  and  older,  you  '11 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  109 

be  able  to  do  somethin'  for  her.  She  's  blind,  you  know,  and 
you  must  be  eyes  for  her;  and  she  's  not  over  strong,  and  you 
must  lend  a  helpin'  hand  to  her  weakness,  just  as  you  do  to 
mine;  and  if  you're  good  and  patient,  God  will  make  your 
heart  light  at  last,  while  you  're  only  tryin'  to  make  other  folks 
happy;  and  when  you're  sad  and  troubled  (for  everybody  is 
sometimes),  then  think  of  old  Uncle  True,  and  how  he  used  to 
say,  '  Cheer  up,  birdie,  for  I  'm  of  the  'pinion  't  will  all  come 
out  right  at  last.'  There,  don't  feel  bad  about  it;  go  to  bed, 
daiiin',  and  to-morrow  we  '11  have  a  nice  walk,  — and  Willie's 
goin'  with  us,  you  know." 

Gerty  tried  to  cheer  up  for  True's  sake,  and  went  to  bed. 
She  did  not  sleep  for  some  hours;  but  when  at  last  she  did 
fall  into  a  quiet  slumber,  it  continued  unbroken  until  morning. 

She  dreamed  that  morning  was  already  come;  that  she  and 
Uncle  True  and  Willie  were  taking  a  pleasant  walk;  that 
Uncle  True  was  strong  and  well  again,  —  his  eye  bright,  his 
step  firm,  and  Willie  and  herself  laughing  and  happy. 

And  while  she  dreamed  the  beautiful  dream,  little  thinking 
that  her  first  friend  and  she  should  no  longer  tread  life's  paths 
together,  the  messenger  came,  — a  gentle,  noiseless  messenger, 
—  and  in  the  still  night,  while  the  world  was  asleep,  took  the 
soul  of  good  old  True,  and  carried  it  home  to  God ! 


110  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XVI 

The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand; 
And,  haply,  there  the  spirits  of  the  blest 
Dwell,  clothed  in  radiance,  their  immortal  vest. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Two  months  have  passed  since  Trueman  Flint's  death,  and 
Gertrude  has  for  a  week  been  domesticated  in  Mr.  Graham's 
family.  It  was  through  the  newspaper  that  Emily  first  heard 
of  the  little  girl's  sudden  loss,  and  immediately  acquainting 
her  father  with  her  wishes  and  plans  concerning  the  child,  she 
found  she  had  no  opposition  to  fear  from  him.  He  reminded 
her,  however,  of  the  inconvenience  that  would  attend  Ger 
trude's  coming  to  them  at  once,  as  they  were  soon  to  start  on 
a  visit  to  some  distant  relatives,  from  which  they  would  not 
return  until  it  was  nearly  time  to  remove  to  the  city  for  the 
winter.  Emily  felt  the  force  of  this  objection;  for  although 
Mrs.  Ellis  would  be  at  home  during  their  absence,  she  knew 
that,  even  were  she  willing  to  undertake  the  charge  of  Gertrude, 
she  would  be  a  very  unfit  person  to  console  her  in  her  time  of 
sorrow  and  affliction. 

This  thought  troubled  Emily,  who  now  considered  herself 
the  orphan  girl's  sole  protector,  and  she  regretted  much  that 
this  unusual  journey  should  take  place  so  inopportunely. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  for  Mr.  Graham's  plans 
were  arranged,  and  must  not  be  interfered  with,  unless  she 
would  make  Gertrude's  coming,  at  the  very  outset,  unwelcome 
and  disagreeable.  She  started  for  town,  therefore,  the  next 
morning,  quite  undecided  what  course  to  pursue  under  the 
circumstances. 

The  day  was  Sunday,  but  Emily's  errand  was  one  of  charity 
and  love,  and  would  not  admit  of  delay ;  and  an  hour  before 
the  time  for  morning  service,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  who  stood  at  her 
open  window,  which  looked  out  upon  the  street,  saw  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  carryall  stop  at  the  door.  She  ran  to  meet  Emily,  and, 
with  the  politeness  and  kindness  always  observable  in  her, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  111 

waited  upon  her  into  her  neat  parlor,  guided  her  to  a  comfort 
able  seat,  placed  in  her  hand  a  fan  (for  the  weather  was  ex 
cessively  warm),  and  then  proceeded  to  tell  how  thankful  she 
was  to  see  her,  and  how  sorry  she  felt  that  Gertrude  was  not 
at  home.  Emily  wonderingly  asked  where  Gertrude  was,  and 
learned  that  she  was  out  walking  with  Willie.  A  succession 
of  inquiries  followed,  and  a  long  and  touching  story  was  told  by 
Mrs.  Sullivan  of  Gertrude's  agony  of  grief,  the  impossibility  of 
comforting  her,  and  the  fears  the  kind  little  woman  had  enter 
tained  lest  the  girl  would  die  of  sorrow. 

"I  couldn't  do  anything  with  her  myself,"  said  she. 
"  There  she  sat  day  after  day,  last  week,  on  her  little  cricket, 
by  Uncle  True's  easy-chair,  with  her  head  on  the  cushion,  and 
I  couldn't  get  her  to  move  or  eat  a  thing.  She  didn't  appear 
to  hear  me  when  I  spoke  to  her;  and  if  I  tried  to  move  her, 
she  didn't  struggle  (for  she  was  very  quiet),  but  she  seemed 
just  like  a  dead  weight  in  my  hands;  and  I  couldn't  bear  to 
make  her  come  away  into  my  room,  though  I  knew  it  would 
change  the  scene,  and  be  better  for  her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Willie,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done,  I  was  getting 
so  worried  about  the  poor  child;  but  he  knows  how  to  manage 
her  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do.  When  he  is  at  home,  we 
get  along  very  well;  for  he  takes  her  right  up  in  his  arms  (he  's 
very  strong,  and  she  's  as  light  as  a  feather,  you  know),  and 
either  carries  her  into  some  other  room  or  out  into  the  yard; 
and  somehow  he  contrives  to  cheer  her  up  wonderfully.  He 
persuades  her  to  eat,  and  in  the  evenings,  when  he  comes  home 
from  the  store,  takes  long  walks  with  her.  Now  last  evening 
they  went  way  over  Chelsea  Bridge,  where  it  was  cool  and  plea 
sant,  you  know ;  and  I  suppose  he  diverted  her  attention  and 
amused  her,  for  she  came  home  brighter  than  I  've  seen  her  at 
all,  and  quite  tired.  I  got  her  to  go  to  bed  in  my  room,  and 
she  slept  soundly  all  night,  so  that  she  really  looks  quite  like 
herself  to-day.  They  've  gone  out  again  this  morning,  and 
being  Sunday,  and  Willie  at  home  all  day,  I  've  no  doubt  he  '11 
keep  her  spirits  up,  if  anybody  can." 

"Willie  shows  very  good  judgment,"  said  Emily,  "in  trying 
to  change  the  scene  for  her,  and  divert  her  thoughts.  I  'm 
thankful  she  has  had  such  kind  friends.  I  promised  Mr.  Flint 
she  should  have  a  home  with  me  when  he  was  taken  away,  and 
not  knowing  of  his  death  until  now,  I  consider  it  a  great  favor 


112  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

to  myself,  as  well  as  her,  that  you  have  taken  such  excellent 
care  of  her.  I  felt  sure  you  had  been  all  goodness,  or  it  would 
have  given  me  great  regret  that  I  had  not  heard  of  True's  death 
before." 

"0,  Miss  Emily!"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "Gertrude  is  so  dear 
to  us,  and  we  have  suffered  so  much  in  seeing  her  suffer,  that 
it  was  a  kindness  to  ourselves  to  do  all  we  could  to  comfort 
her.  Why,  I  think  she  and  Willie  could  not  love  each  other 
better,  if  they  were  own  brother  and  sister;  and  Willie  and 
Uncle  True  were  great  friends;  indeed,  we  shall  all  miss  him 
very  much.  My  old  father  doesn't  say  much  about  it,  but  I 
can  see  he  's  very  down-hearted." 

More  conversation  followed,  in  the  course  of  which  Mrs. 
Sullivan  informed  Emily  that  a  cousin  of  hers,  a  farmer's  wife, 
living  in  the  country,  about  twenty  miles  from  Boston,  had 
invited  them  all  to  come  and  pass  a  week  or  two  with  her  at 
the  farm,  and  as  Willie  was  now  to  enjoy  his  usual  summer 
vacation,  they  proposed  accepting  the  invitation. 

She  spoke  of  Gertrude's  accompanying  them  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  enlarged  upon  the  advantage  it  would  be  to  her  to 
breathe  the  country  air,  and  ramble  about  the  fields  and  woods, 
after  all  the  fatigue  and  confinement  she  had  endured. 

Emily,  finding  from  her  inquiries  that  Gertrude  would  be  a 
welcome  and  expected  guest,  cordially  approved  of  the  visit, 
and  also  arranged  with  Mrs.  Sullivan  that  she  should  remain 
under  her  care  until  Mr.  Graham  removed  to  Boston  for  the 
winter.  She  was  then  obliged  to  leave,  without  waiting  for 
Gertrude's  return,  though  she  left  many  a  kind  message  for 
her,  and  placed  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  hands  a  sufficient  sum  of 
money  to  provide  for  all  her  wants  and  expenses. 

Gertrude  went  into  the  country,  and  abundance  of  novelty, 
of  country  fare,  healthful  exercise,  and  heartfelt  kindness  and 
sympathy,  brought  the  color  into  her  cheek,  and  calmness  and 
composure,  if  not  happiness,  into  her  heart. 

Soon  after  the  Sullivans*  return  from  their  excursion,  the 
Grahams  removed  to  the  city,  and,  as  we  have  said  before,  Ger 
trude  had  now  been  with  them  about  a  week. 

"Are  you  still  standing  at  the  window,  Gertrude1?  What 
are  you  doing,  dear  ?  " 

"I  'm  watching  to  see  the  lamps  lit,  Miss  Emily." 

"But  they  will  not  be  lit  at  all.     The  moon  will  rise  at 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  113 

eight  o'clock,  and  light  the  streets  sufficiently  for  the  rest  of 
the  night." 

"I  don't  mean  the  street  lamps." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  child?  "  said  Emily,  coming  towards 
the  window,  and  lightly  resting  a  hand  on  each  of  Gertrude's 
shoulders. 

"I  mean  the  stars,  dear  Miss  Emily.  0,  how  I  wish  you 
could  see  them  too !  " 

"Are  they  very  bright?" 

"  0,  they  are  beautiful !  and  there  are  so  many !  The  sky  is 
as  full  as  it  can  be." 

"  How  well  I  remember  when  I  used  to  stand  at  this  very 
window,  and  look  at  them  as  you  are  doing  now !  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  saw  them  this  moment,  I  know  so  well  how  they 
look." 

"I  love  the  stars,  — all  of  them,"  said  Gertrude;  "but  my 
own  star  I  love  the  best." 

"  Which  do  you  call  yours  1 " 

"That  splendid  one  there,  over  the  church  steeple;  it  shines 
into  my  room  every  night,  and  looks  me  in  the  face.  Miss 
Emily  (and  here  Gertrude  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper),  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  that  star  were  lit  on  purpose  for  me.  I  think 
Uncle  True  lights  it  every  night.  I  always  feel  as  if  he  were 
smiling  up  there  and  saying,  '  See,  Gerty,  I  'm  lighting  the 
lamp  for  you. '  Dear  Uncle  True !  Miss  Emily,  do  you  think 
he  loves  me  now  1 " 

"I  do,  indeed,  Gertrude;  and  I  think,  if  you  make  him  an 
example,  and  try  to  live  as  good  and  patient  a  life  as  he  did, 
that  he  will  really  be  a  lamp  to  your  feet  and  as  bright  a  light 
to  your  path  as  if  his  face  were  shining  down  upon  you  through 
the  star." 

"I  was  patient  and  good  when  I  lived  with  him;  at  least, 
I  almost  always  was;  and  I  'm  good  when  I  'm  with  you;  but 
I  don't  like  Mrs.  Ellis.  She  tries  to  plague  me,  and  she  makes 
me  cross,  and  then  I  get  angry,  and  don't  know  what  I  do  or 
say.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  impertinent  to  her  to-day,  and  I 
wish  I  hadn't  slammed  the  door;  but  how  could  I  help  it, 
Miss  Emily,  when  she  told  me,  right  before  Mr.  Graham,  that 
I  tore  up  the  last  night's  Journal,  and  I  know  that  I  did  not? 
It  was  an  old  paper  that  she  saw  me  tying  your  slippers  up  in, 
and  I  am  almost  sure  that  she  lit  the  library  fire  with  that  very 


114  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Journal,  herself;  but  Mr.  Graham  will  always  think  I  did 
it." 

"I  have  no  doubt,  Gertrude,  that  you  had  some  reason  to 
feel  provoked,  and  I  believe  you  when  you  say  that  you  were 
not  the  person  to  blame  for  the  loss  of  the  newspaper.  But 
you  must  remember  my  dear,  that  there  is  no  merit  in  being 
patient  and  good-tempered  when  there  is  nothing  to  irritate 
you.  I  want  you  to  learn  to  bear  even  injustice,  without  los 
ing  your  self-control.  You  know  Mrs.  Ellis  has  been  here  a 
number  of  years;  she  has  had  everything  her  own  way,  and  is 
not  used  to  young  people.  She  felt,  when  you  came,  that  it 
was  bringing  new  care  and  trouble  upon  her,  and  it  is  not 
strange  that  when  things  go  wrong  she  should  sometimes  think 
you  in  fault.  She  is  a  very  faithful  woman,  very  kind  and 
attentive  to  me,  and  very  important  to  my  father.  It  will 
make  me  unhappy  if  I  have  any  reason  to  fear  that  you  and  she 
will  not  live  pleasantly  together." 

"I  do  not  want  to  make  you  unhappy;  I  do  not  want  to  be 
a  trouble  to  anybody,"  said  Gertrude,  with  some  excitement; 
"I  '11  go  away.  I  '11  go  off  somewhere,  where  you  will  never 
see  me  again !  " 

"  Gertrude !  "  said  Emily  seriously  and  sadly.  Her  hands 
were  still  upon  the  young  girl's  shoulders,  and  as  she  spoke 
she  turned  her  round,  and  brought  her  face  to  face  with  her 
self.  "  Gertrude,  do  you  wish  to  leave  your  blind  friend  1  Do 
you  not  love  me  ?  " 

So  touchingly  grieved  was  the  expression  of  the  countenance 
that  met  her  gaze,  that  Gertrude's  proud,  hasty  spirit  was  sub 
dued.  She  threw  her  arms  round  Emily's  neck,  and  exclaimed, 
"No !  dear  Miss  Emily,  I  would  not  leave  you  for  all  the  world, 
I  will  do  just  as  you  wish.  I  will  never  be  angry  with  Mrs. 
Ellis  again,  for  your  sake." 

"Not  for  my  sake,  Gertrude,"  replied  Emily  ;  "for  your 
own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  duty  and  of  God.  A  few  years  ago 
I  should  not  have  expected  you  to  be  pleasant  and  amiable 
towards  any  one  whom  you  felt  ill- treated  you ;  but  now  that 
you  know  so  well  what  is  right;  now  that  you  are  familiar 
with  the  life  of  that  blessed  Master  who,  when  he  was  reviled, 
reviled  not  again ;  now  that  you  have  learned  faithfully  to  ful 
fil  so  many  important  duties,  I  had  hoped  that  you  had  learned, 
also,  to  be  forbearing  under  the  most  trying  circumstances. 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  115 

But  do  not  think,  Gertrude,  because  I  remind  you  when  you 
have  done  wrong,  I  despair  of  your  becoming  one  day  all  I 
wish  to  see  you.  What  you  are  experiencing  now  being  a  new 
trial,  you  must  bring  new  strength  to  bear  upon  it;  and  I  have 
such  confidence  in  you  as  to  believe  that,  knowing  my  wishes, 
you  will  try  to  behave  properly  to  Mrs.  Ellis  on  all  occasions." 

"I  will,  Miss  Emily,  I  will.  I  '11  not  answer  her  back  when 
she  's  ugly  to  me,  if  I  have  to  bite  my  lips  to  keep  them  to 
gether.  " 

"0,  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Emily 
smiling.  "Mrs.  Ellis's  manner  is  rather  rough,  but  you  will 
get  used  to  her." 

Just  then  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  entry,  —  "  To  see  Miss 
Flint!  Really.  Well,  Miss  Flint  is  in  Miss  Emily's  room. 
She  's  going  to  entertain  company,  is  she  ?  " 

Gertrude  colored  to  her  temples,  for  it  was  Mrs.  Ellis's  voice, 
and  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke  was  very  derisive. 

Emily  stepped  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.      "Mrs.  Ellis! " 

"What  say,  Emily?" 

"  Is  there  any  one  below  1 " 

"Yes;  a  young  man  wants  to  see  Gertrude;  it 's  that  young 
Sullivan,  I  believe." 

"  Willie !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  starting  forward. 

"You  can  go  down  and  see  him,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily; 
"come  back  here  when  he  's  gone;  and,  Mrs.  Ellis,  I  wish  you 
would  step  in  and  put  my  room  a  little  in  order.  I  think  you 
will  find  plenty  of  pieces  for  your  rag-bag  about  the  carpet,  — 
Miss  Randolph  always  scatters  so  many  when  she  is  engaged 
with  her  dressmaking." 

Mrs.  Ellis  made  her  collection,  and  then,  seating  herself  on 
a  couch  at  the  side  of  the  fireplace,  with  her  colored  rags  in 
one  hand  and  the  white  in  the  other,  commenced  speaking  of 
Gertrude. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her,  Emily  ? "  said  she, 
'  send  her  to  school  ?  " 

"Yes.      She  will  go  to  Mr.  W.'s  this  winter." 

"Why!  Isn't  that  a  very  expensive  school  for  a  child  like 
her?" 

"  It  is  expensive,  certainly ;  but  I  wish  her  to  be  with  the 
best  teacher  I  know  of,  and  father  makes  no  objection  to  the 
terms.  He  thinks,  as  I  do,  that  if  we  undertake  to  fit  hei 


116  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

to  instruct  others,  she  must  be  thoroughly  taught  herself.  I 
talked  with  him  about  it  the  first  night  after  we  came  into  town 
for  the  season,  and  he  agreed  with  me  that  we  had  better  put 
her  out  to  learn  a  trade  at  once,  than  half-educate,  make  a  fine 
lady  of  her,  and  so  unfit  her  for  anything.  He  was  willing  I 
should  manage  the  matter  as  I  pleased,  and  I  resolved  to  send 
her  to  Mr.  W.  's.  So  she  will  remain  with  us  for  the  present. 
I  wish  to  keep  her  with  me  as  long  as  I  can,  not  only  because 
I  am  fond  of  the  child,  but  she  is  delicate  and  sensitive;  and 
now  that  she  is  so  sad  about  old  Mr.  Flint's  death,  I  think  we 
ought  to  do  all  we  can  to  make  her  happy,  don't  you,  Mrs. 
Ellis  ? » 

"I  always  calculate  to  do  my  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  rather 
stiffly.  "Where  is  she  going  to  sleep  when  we  get  settled? " 

"In  the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage.'7 

"  Then  where  shall  I  keep  the  linen  press  ?  " 

"Can't  it  stand  in  the  back  entry?  I  should  think  the 
space  between  the  windows  would  accommodate  it." 

"I  suppose  it 's  got  to,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  flouncing  out  of  the 
room,  and  muttering  to  herself, — "everything  turned  topsy 
turvy  for  the  sake  of  that  little  upstart ! " 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  vexed  on  more  accounts  than  one.  She  had 
long  had  her  own  way  in  the  management  of  all  household 
matters  at  Mr.  Graham's,  and  had  consequently  become  rather 
tyrannical.  She  was  capable,  methodical,  and  neat ;  accustomed 
to  a  small  family,  and  now  for  many  years  quite  unaccustomed 
to  children ;  Gertrude  was  in  her  eyes  an  unwarrantable  intruder 
—  one  who  must  of  necessity  be  continually  in  mischief,  contin 
ually  deranging  her  most  cherished  plans.  Then,  too,  Gertrude 
had  been  reared,  as  Mrs.  Ellis  expressed  it,  among  the  lower 
classes,  and  the  housekeeper,  who  was  not  in  reality  very  hard 
hearted,  and  quite  approved  of  all  public  and  private  charities, 
had  a  slight  prejudice  in  favor  of  high  birth.  Indeed,  though 
now  depressed  in  her  circumstances,  she  prided  herself  on  being 
of  a  good  family,  and  considered  it  an  insult  to  her  dignity  to 
expect  that  she  should  feel  an  interest  in  providing  for  the 
wants  of  one  so  inferior  to  her  in  point  of  station. 

More  than  all  this,  she  saw  in  the  new  inmate  a  formidable 
rival  to  herself  in  Miss  Graham's  affections;  and  Mrs.  Ellis 
could  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  second  in  the  regard  of  Emily, 
who,  owing  to  her  peculiar  misfortune  and  to  her  delicate 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  117 

health,  had  long  been  her  especial  charge,  and  for  whom  she 
felt  as  much  tenderness  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  feel  for  any 
one. 

Owing  to  all  these  circumstances,  Mrs.  Ellis  was  far  from 
being  favorably  disposed  towards  Gertrude;  and  Gertrude,  in 
her  turn,  was  not  yet  prepared  to  love  Mrs.  Ellis  very  cor 
dially. 


118  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XVII 

And  thou  must  sail  upon  this  sea,  a  long, 
Eventful  voyage.    The  wise  may  suffer  wreck, 
The  foolish  must.    O,  then,  be  early  wise. 

WARE. 

EMILY  sat  alone  in  her  room.  Mr.  Graham  had  gone  to  a 
meeting  of  bank  directors.  Mrs.  Ellis  was  stoning  raisins  in 
the  dining-room.  Willie  still  detained  Gertrude  in  the  little 
library  below  stairs,  and  Emily,  with  the  moonlight  now  stream 
ing  across  the  chamber,  which  was  none  the  less  dark  to  her  on 
that  account,  was  indulging  in  a  long  train  of  meditation.  Her 
head  rested  on  her  hand;  her  face,  usually  so  placid,  was  sad 
and  melancholy  in  its  expression ;  and  her  whole  appearance  and 
attitude  denoted  despondency  and  grief.  As  thought  pressed 
upon  thought,  and  past  sorrows  arose  in  quick  succession,  her 
head  gradually  sank  upon  the  cushions  of  the  couch  where  she 
sat,  and  tears  slowly  trickled  through  her  fingers. 

Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  softly  upon  hers.  She  gave  a 
quick  start,  as  she  always  did  when  surprised,  for  her  unusual 
preoccupation  of  mind  had  made  Gertrude's  approaching  step 
unheard. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Miss  Emily  ?  "  said  Gertrude.  "  Do 
you  like  best  to  be  alone,  or  may  I  stay  ? " 

The  sympathetic  tone,  the  delicacy  of  the  child's  question, 
touched  Emily.  She  drew  her  towards  her,  saying  as  she  did 
so,  "0  yes,  stay  with  me;"  then  observing,  as  she  passed  an 
arm  round  the  little  girl,  that  she  trembled  and  seemed  vio 
lently  agitated,  she  added,  "but  what  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Gerty  ]  What  makes  you  tremble  and  sob  so  1 " 

At  this  Gertrude  broke  forth  with,  "0  Miss  Emily!  I 
thought  you  were  crying  when  I  came  in,  and  I  hoped  you 
would  let  me  come  and  cry  with  you ;  for  I  am  so  miserable  I 
can't  do  anything  else." 

Calmed  herself  by  the  more  vehement  agitation  of  the  child, 
Emily  endeavored  to  discover  the  cause  of  this  evidently  new 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  119 

and  severe  affliction.  It  proved  to  be  this:  Willie  had  been 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  going  away,  going  out  of  the  country ; 
as  Gertrude  expressed  it,  to  the  very  other  end  of  the  world  — 
to  India.  Mr.  Clinton  was  interested  in  a  mercantile  house  at 
Calcutta,  and  had  offered  William  the  most  favorable  terms  to 
go  abroad  as  clerk  to  the  establishment.  The  prospect  thus 
afforded  was  far  better  than  he  could  hope  for  by  remaining  at 
home;  the  salary  was,  at  the  very  first,  sufficient  to  defray  all 
his  own  expenses  and  provide  for  the  wants  of  those  who  were 
now  becoming  every  year  more  and  more  dependent  upon  him. 
The  chance,  too,  of  future  advancement  was  great ;  and  though 
the  young  man's  affectionate  heart  clung  fondly  to  home  and 
friends,  there  was  no  hesitation  in  his  mind  as  to  the  course 
which  both  duty  and  interest  prompted.  He  agreed  to  the  pro 
posal,  and  whatever  his  own  struggles  were  at  the  thought  of 
five,  or  perhaps  ten  years'  banishment,  he  kept  them  manfully 
to  himself,  and  talked  cheerfully  about  it  to  his  mother  and 
grandfather. 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  Gertrude,  when  she  had  acquainted  her 
with  the  news,  and  become  again  somewhat  calm,  "how  can  I 
bear  to  have  Willie  go  away  1  How  can  I  live  without  Willie  1 
He  is  so  kind,  and  loves  me  so  much !  He  was  always  bet 
ter  than  any  brother,  and  since  Uncle  True  died,  he  has  done 
everything  in  the  world  for  me.  I  believe  I  could  not  have 
borne  Uncle  True's  death  if  it  had  not  been  for  Willie;  and 
now  how  can  I  let  him  go  away  ?  " 

"It  is  hard,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily  kindly,  "but  it  is  no 
doubt  for  his  advantage ;  you  must  try  and  think  of  that. " 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Gertrude;  "I  suppose  it  is;  but, 
Miss  Emily,  you  do  not  know  how  I  love  Willie.  We  were  so 
much  together;  and  there  were  only  us  two,  and  we  thought 
everything  of  each  other;  he  was  so  much  older  than  I,  and 
always  took  such  good  care  of  me!  0,  I  don't  think  you  have 
any  idea  what  friends  we  are ! " 

Gertrude  had  unconsciously  touched  a  chord  that  vibrated 
through  Emily's  whole  frame.  Her  voice  trembled  as  she  an 
swered,  "/,  Gertrude!  not  know,  my  child!  I  know  better 
than  you  imagine  how  dear  he  must  be  to  you.  /,  too,  had  " 
—  then  checking  herself,  she  paused  abruptly,  and  there  was  a 
few  moments'  silence,  during  which  Emily  got  up,  walked  has 
tily  to  the  window,  pressed  her  aching  head  against  the  frosty 


120  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

glass,  and  then,  returning  to  Gertrude,  said,  in  a  voice  which 
had  recovered  its  usual  calmness,  "0  Gertrude!  in  the  grief 
that  oppresses  you  now,  you  little  realize  how  much  you  have 
to  be  thankful  for.  Think,  my  dear,  what  a  blessing  it  is  that 
Willie  will  be  where  you  can  often  hear  from  him,  and  where 
he  can  have  constant  news  of  his  friends." 

"Yes,"  replied  Gerty;  "he  says  he  shall  write  to  his  mother 
and  me  very  often." 

"Then,  too,"  said  Emily,  "you  ought  to  rejoice  at  the  good 
opinion  Mr.  Clinton  must  have  of  Willie;  the  perfect  confi 
dence  he  must  feel  in  his  uprightness,  to  place  in  him  so  much 
trust.  I  think  that  is  very  flattering." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Gertrude;  "I  did  not  think  of  that." 

"And  you  have  lived  so  happily  together,"  continued  Emily, 
"and  will  part  in  such  perfect  peace.  0  Gertrude!  Gertrude! 
such  a  parting  as  that  should  not  make  you  sad;  there  are  so 
much  worse  things  in  the  world.  Be  patient,  my  dear  child, 
do  your  duty,  and  perhaps  there  will  some  day  be  a  happy 
meeting,  that  will  quite  repay  you  for  all  you  suffer  in  the 
separation. " 

Emily's  voice  trembled  as  she  uttered  the  last  few  words. 
Gertrude's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  friend  with  a  very  puzzled 
expression.  "Miss  Emily,"  said  she,  "I  begin  to  think  every 
body  has  trouble." 

"Certainly,  Gertrude;  can  you  doubt  it ?" 

"I  did  not  use  to  think  so.  I  knew  /  had,  but  I  thought 
other  folks  were  more  fortunate.  I  fancied  that  rich  people 
were  all  happy;  and  though  you  are  blind,  and  that  is  a  dread 
ful  thing,  I  supposed  you  were  used  to  it;  and  you  always 
looked  so  pleasant  and  quiet,  I  took  it  for  granted  nothing  ever 
vexed  you  now.  And  then,  Willie !  I  believed  once  that 
nothing  could  make  him  look  sad,  he  was  always  so  gay;  but 
when  he  hadn't  any  place,  I  saw  him  really  cry;  and  then, 
when  Uncle  True  died,  and  now  again  to-night,  when  he  was 
telling  me  about  going  away,  he  could  hardly  speak,  he  felt  so 
badly.  And  so,  Miss  Emily,  since  I  see  that  you  and  Willie 
have  troubles,  and  that  tears  will  come  though  you  try  to  keep 
them  back,  I  think  the  world  is  full  of  trials,  and  that  every 
body  gets  a  share." 

"It  is  the  lot  of  humanity,  Gertrude,  and  we  must  not  ex 
pect  it  to  be  otherwise." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  121 

"  Then  who  can  be  happy,  Miss  Emily  ?  " 

"Those  only,  my  child,  who  have  learned  submission;  those 
who,  in  the  severest  afflictions,  see  the  hand  of  a  loving  Father, 
and,  obedient  to  his  will,  kiss  the  chastening  rod." 

"It  is  very  hard,  Miss  Emily.77 

"It  is  hard,  my  child,  and  therefore  few  in  this  world  can 
rightly  be  called  happy;  but  if,  even  in  the  midst  of  our  dis 
tress,  we  can  look  to  God  in  faith  and  love,  we  may,  when  the 
world  is  dark  around,  experience  a  peace  that  is  a  foretaste  of 
heaven.77 

And  Emily  was  right.  Who  that'  is  striving  after  the  Chris 
tian  life  has  not  experienced  moments  when,  amid  unusual  dis 
couragements  and  disappointments,  the  heart,  turning  in  love 
and  trust  to  its  great  Source,  experiences  emotions  of  ecstatic 
joy  and  hope,  that  never  come  to  the  prosperous  and  the  world- 
called  happy  1  He  who  has  had  such  dreams  of  eternal  peace 
can  form  some  conception  of  the  rest  which  remaineth  for  the 
people  of  God,  when,  with  an  undivided  affection,  and  a  faith 
undimmed  by  a  single  doubt,  the  soul  reposes  in  the  bosom  of 
its  Creator. 

Gertrude  had  often  found  in  time  and  the  soothing  influences 
of  religious  faith  some  alleviation  to  her  trials ;  but  never  until 
this  night  did  she  feel  a  spirit  not  of  earth,  coming  forth  from 
the  very  chaos  of  sorrow  into  which  she  was  plunged,  and  en 
kindling  within  her  the  flame  of  a  higher  and  nobler  sensation 
than  she  ever  yet  had  cherished. 

When  she  left  Emily  that  night,  it  was  with  a  serenity 
which  is  strength;  and  if  the  spirit  of  Uncle  True,  looking 
down  upon  her  through  the  bright  star  which  she  so  loved, 
sighed  to  see  the  tears  which  glittered  in  her  eyes,  it  was  reas 
sured  by  the  smile  of  a  heaven-lit  light  that  played  over  her 
features,  and  when  she  sunk  to  slumber  stamped  them  with  the 
seal  of  peace. 

Willie's  departure  was  sudden,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  only 
a  week  in  which  to  make  those  arrangements  which  a  mother's 
thoughtfulness  deems  necessary.  Her  hands  were  therefore 
full  of  work,  and  Gerty,  whom  Emily  at  once  relinquished  for 
the  short  time  previous  to  the  vessel's  sailing,  was  of  great 
assistance  to  her.  Willie  was  very  busy  daytimes,  but  was 
always  with  them  in  the  evening. 

On    one    occasion   he  returned  home    about  dusk,   and  his 


122  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

mother  and  grandfather  both  being  out,  and  Gertrude  having 
just  put  aside  her  sewing,  he  said  to  her,  "Come,  Gerty,  if 
you  are  not  afraid  of  taking  cold,  come  and  sit  on  the  doorstep 
with  me,  as  we  used  to  in  old  times;  there  will  be  no  more 
such  warm  days  as  this,  and  we  may  never  have  another  chance 
to  sit  there,  and  watch  the  moon  rise  above  the  old  house  at 
the  corner." 

"0  Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  "do  not  speak  of  our  never  be 
ing  together  in  this  old  place  again !  I  cannot  bear  the  thought ; 
there  is  not  a  house  in  Boston  I  could  ever  love  as  I  do  this." 

"Nor  I,"  replied  Willie;  "but  there  is  not  one  chance  in  a 
hundred,  if  I  should  be  gone  five  years,  that  there  would  not 
be  a  block  of  brick  stores  in  this  spot  when  I  come  to  look  for 
it.  I  wish  I  did  not  think  so,  for  I  shall  have  many  a  longing 
after  the  old  home." 

"But  what  will  become  of  your  mother  and  grandfather  if 
this  house  is  torn  down  1 " 

"It  is  not  easy  to  tell,  Gerty,  what  will  become  of  any  of 
us  by  that  time ;  but  if  there  is  any  necessity  for  their  moving, 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  provide  a  better  house  than  this  for 
them." 

"You  won't  be  here,  Willie." 

"I  know  it,  but  I  shall  be  always  hearing  from  you,  and  we 
can  talk  about  it  by  letters,  and  arrange  everything.  The  idea 
of  any  such  changes,  after  all,"  added  he,  "is  what  troubles 
me  most  in  going  away ;  I  think  they  would  miss  me  and  need 
me  so  much.  Gertrude,  you  will  take  care  of  them,  won't 
you?" 

"  I !  "  said  Gertrude  in  amazement,  "  such  a  child  as  I !  —  what 
can  I  do?" 

"If  I  am  gone  five  or  ten  years,  Gerty,  you  will  not  be  a 
child  all  that  time,  and  a  woman  is  often  a  better  dependence 
than  a  man;  especially  such  a  good,  brave  woman  as  you  will 
be.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  beautiful  care  you  took  of  Uncle 
True ;  and  whenever  I  imagine  grandfather  or  mother  old  and 
helpless,  I  always  think  of  you,  and  hope  you  will  be  near 
them ;  for  I  know  if  you  are,  you  will  be  a  greater  help  than 
I  could  be.  So  I  leave  them  in  your  care,  Gerty,  though  you 
are  only  a  child  yet." 

"Thank  you,  Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  "for  believing  I  shall 
do  everything  I  can  for  them.  I  certainly  will  as  long  as  1 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  123 

live.  But  Willie,  they  may  be  strong  and  well  all  the  time 
you  are  gone ;  and  /,  although  I  am  so  young,  may  be  sick  and 
die,  — nobody  knows." 

"That  is  true  enough,"  said  Willie  sadly;  "and  I  may  die 
myself,  but  it  will  not  do  to  think  of  that.  It  seems  to  me  I 
never  should  have  courage  to  go,  if  I  didn't  hope  to  find  you 
all  well  and  happy  when  I  come  home.  You  must  write  to 
me  every  month,  for  it  will  be  a  much  greater  task  to  mother, 
and  I  am  sure  she  will  want  you  to  do  nearly  all  the  writing; 
and  whether  my  letters  come  directed  to  her  or  you,  it  will  be 
all  the  same,  you  know.  And  Gerty,  you  must  not  forget 
me,  darling ;  you  must  love  me  just  as  much  when  I  am  gone, 
won't  you? " 

"Forget  you,  Willie!  I  shall  be  always  thinking  of  you, 
and  loving  you  the  same  as  ever.  What  else  shall  I  have  to 
do?  But  you  will  be  off  in  a  strange  country,  where  every 
thing  will  be  different,  and  you  will  not  think  half  as  much  of 
me  I  know." 

"If  you  believe  that,  Gertrude,  it  is  because  you  do  not 
know.  You  will  have  friends  all  around  you,  and  I  shall  be 
alone  in  a  foreign  land ;  but  every  day  of  my  life  my  heart  will 
be  with  you  and  my  mother,  and  I  shall  live  here  a  great  deal 
more  than  there." 

They  were  now  interrupted  by  Mr.  Cooper's  return,  nor  did 
they  afterwards  renew  the  conversation  on  the  above  topics ;  but 
the  morning  Willie  left  them,  when  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  leaning 
over  a  neatly  packed  trunk  in  the  next  room,  trying  to  hide 
her  tears,  and  Mr.  Cooper's  head  was  bowed  lower  than  usual, 
while  the  light  had  gone  out  in  the  neglected  pipe,  which  he 
still  held  in  his  hand,  Willie  whispered  to  Gerty,  who  was 
standing  on  a  small  chest  of  books,  in  order  to  force  down  the 
lid  for  him  to  lock  it,  "  Gerty  dear,  for  my  sake  take  good  care 
of  our  mother  and  grandfather  —  they  are  yours  almost  as  much 
as  mine." 

On  Willie's  thus  leaving  home  for  the  first  time,  to  struggle 
and  strive  among  men,  Mr.  Cooper,  who  could  not  yet  believe 
that  the  boy  would  be  successful  in  the  war  with  fortune,  gave 
him  many  a  caution  against  indulging  hopes  which  never  would 
be  realized,  and  reminded  him  again  and  again  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  world. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  bestowed  on  her  son  but  little  parting  counsel 


124  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Trusting  to  the  lessons  he  had  been  learning  from  his  child 
hood,  she  compressed  her  parental  advice  into  few  words,  say 
ing,  "Love  and  fear  God,  Willie,  and  do  not  disappoint  your 
mother. " 

We  pause  not  to  dwell  upon  the  last  night  the  youth  spent 
at  home,  his  mother's  last  evening  prayer,  her  last  morning 
benediction,  the  last  breakfast  they  all  took  together  (Gertrude 
among  the  rest),  or  the  final  farewell  embrace. 

And  Willie  went  to  sea.  And  the  pious,  loving,  hopeful 
woman,  who  for  eighteen  years  had  cherished  her  boy  with 
tenderness  and  pride,  maintained  now  her  wonted  spirit  of  self- 
sacrifice,  and  gave  him  up  without  a  murmur.  None  knew 
how  she  struggled  with  her  aching  heart,  or  whence  came  the 
power  that  sustained  her.  No  one  had  given  the  little  widow 
credit  for  such  strength  of  mind,  and  the  neighbors  wondered 
much  to  see  how  quietly  she  went  about  her  duties  the  day 
before  her  son  sailed;  and  how,  when  he  had  gone,  she  still 
kept  on  with  her  work,  and  wore  the  same  look  of  patient 
humility  that  ever  characterized  her. 

At  the  present  moment,  when  emigration  offers  rare  hopes 
and  inducements,  there  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  New  England 
a  village  so  insignificant,  or  so  secluded,  that  there  is  not  there 
some  mother's  heart  bleeding  at  the  perhaps  lifelong  separation 
from  a  darling  son.  Among  the  wanderers,  we  hope  —  ay,  we 
believe  —  that  there  is  many  a  one  who  is  actuated,  not  by  the 
love  of  gold,  the  love  of  change,  the  love  of  adventure,  but 
by  the  love  he  bears  his  mother,  —  the  earnest  longing  of  his 
heart  to  save  her  from  a  life  of  toil  and  poverty.  Blessings 
and  prosperity  to  him  who  goes  forth  with  such  a  motive !  And 
if  he  fail,  he  has  not  lived  in  vain;  for  though  stricken  by  dis 
ease  or  violence  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  labors,  he  dies  in 
attestation  of  the  truth  that  there  are  sons  worthy  of  a  mother's 
love,  a  love  which  is  the  highest,  the  holiest,  the  purest  type 
of  God  on  earth. 

And  now,  in  truth,  commenced  Gertrude's  residence  at  Mr. 
Graham's,  hitherto  in  various  ways  interrupted.  She  at  once 
-commenced  attending  school,  and  until  the  spring  labored  dili 
gently  at  her  studies.  Her  life  was  varied  by  few  incidents, 
for  Emily  never  entertained  much  company,  and  in  the  winter 
scarcely  any  at  all,  and  Gertrude  formed  no  intimate  acquaint 
ances  among  her  companions.  With  Emily  she  passed  many 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  125 

happy  hours;  they  took  walks,  read  books,  and  talked  much 
with  each  other,  and  Miss  Graham  found  that  in  Gertrude's 
observing  eyes,  and  her  feeling  and  glowing  descriptions  of 
everything  that  came  within  their  gaze,  she  was  herself  renew 
ing  her  acquaintance  with  the  outside  world.  In  errands  of 
charity  and  mercy  Gertrude  was  either  her  attendant  or  her 
messenger;  and  all  the  dependants  of  the  family,  from  the  cook 
to  the  little  boy  who  called  at  the  door  for  the  fragments  of 
broken  bread,  agreed  in  loving  and  praising  the  child  who, 
though  neither  beautiful  nor  elegantly  dressed,  had  a  fairy 
lightness  of  step,  a  grace  of  movement,  and  a  dignity  of  bearing, 
which  impressed  them  all  with  the  conviction  that  she  was  no 
beggar  in  spirit,  whatever  might  be  her  birth  or  fortune,  —  and 
all  were  in  the  invariable  habit  of  addressing  her  as  Miss  Ger 
trude. 

Mrs.  Ellis 's  prejudices  against  her  were  still  strong,  but  as 
Gertrude  was  always  civil,  and  Emily  prudently  kept  them 
much  apart,  no  unhappy  result  had  yet  ensued. 

Mr.  Graham,  seeing  her  sad  and  pensive,  did  not  at  first  take 
much  notice  of  her;  but  having  on  several  occasions  found  his 
newspaper  carefully  dried,  and  his  spectacles  miraculously  re 
stored,  after  a  vain  search  on  his  part,  he  began  to  think  her 
a  smart  girl ;  and  when  a  few  weeks  after,  he  took  up  the  last 
number  of  the  "Working  Farmer,"  and  saw  to  his  surprise 
that  the  leaves  were  cut  and  carefully  stitched  together,  he, 
supposing  she  had  done  it  for  her  own  benefit,  pronounced  her 
decidedly  an  intelligent  girl. 

She  went  often  to  see  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  as  the  spring  ad 
vanced,  they  began  to  look  for  news  of  Willie.  No  tidings 
had  come,  however,  when  the  season  arrived  for  the  Grahams 
to  remove  into  the  country  for  the  summer.  A  letter,  written 
by  Gertrude  to  Willie,  soon  after  they  were  established  there, 
will  give  some  idea  of  her  situation  and  mode  of  life. 

After  dwelling  at  some  length  upon  the  disappointment  of 
not  having  yet  heard  from  him,  and  giving  an  account  of  the 
last  visit  she  had  made  his  mother  before  leaving  the  city,  she 
went  on  to  say :  "  But  you  made  me  promise,  Willie,  to  write 
about  myself,  and  said  you  should  wish  to  hear  everything  that 
occurred  at  Mr.  Graham's  which  concerned  me  in  any  way;  so 
if  my  letter  is  more  tedious  than  usual,  it  is  your  own  fault, 
for  I  have  much  to  tell  of  our  removal  to  D ,  and  of  the 


126  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

way  in  which  we  live  here,  so  different  from  our  life  in  Bos* 
ton.  I  think  I  hear  you  say,  when  you  have  read  so  far,  *  0 
dear!  now  Gerty  is  going  to  give  me  a  description  of  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  country-house!' — but  you  need  not  be  afraid;  I  have 
not  forgotten  how,  the  last  time  I  undertook  to  do  so,  you 
placed  your  hand  over  my  mouth  to  stop  me,  and  assured  me 
you  knew  the  place  as  well  as  if  you  had  lived  there  all  your 
life,  for  I  had  described  it  to  you  as  often  as  once  a  week  ever 
since  I  was  eight  years  old.  I  made  you  beg  my  pardon  for 
being  so  uncivil;  but  I  believe  I  talked  enough  about  my  first 
visit  here  to  excuse  you  for  being  quite  tired  of  the  subject. 
Now,  however,  quite  to  my  disappointment,  everything  looks 
smaller  and  less  beautiful  than  it  seemed  to  me  then;  and 
though  I  do  not  mean  to  describe  it  to  you  again,  I  must  just 
tell  you  that  the  entry  and  piazzas  are  much  narrower  than  I 
expected,  the  rooms  lower,  and  the  garden  and  summer-houses 
not  nearly  so  large.  Miss  Emily  asked  me  a  day  or  two  ago 
how  I  liked  the  place,  and  if  it  looked  as  it  used  to.  I  told 
her  the  truth;  and  she  was  not  at  all  displeased,  but  laughed 
at  my  old  recollections  of  the  house  and  grounds,  and  said  it 
was  always  so  with  things  we  had  seen  when  we  were  little 
children. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  that  Miss  Emily  is  kind  and  good  to  me 
as  ever;  for  nobody  who  knows  her  as  you  do  would  suppose 
she  could  ever  be  anything  but  the  best  and  loveliest  person 
in  the  world.  I  can  never  do  half  enough,  Willie,  to  repay 
her  for  all  her  goodness  to  me ;  and  yet  she  is  so  pleased  with 
little  gifts,  and  so  grateful  for  trifling  attentions,  that  it  seems 
as  if  everybody  might  do  something  to  make  her  happy.  I 
found  a  few  violets  in  the  grass  yesterday,  and  when  I  brought 
them  to  her  she  kissed  and  thanked  me  as  if  they  had  been  so 
many  diamonds;  and  little  Ben  Gately,  who  picked  a  hatful  of 
dandelion  blossoms,  without  a  single  stem,  and  then  rang  at  the 
front-door  bell  and  asked  for  Miss  Ga'am,  so  as  to  give  them 
to  her  himself,  got  a  sweet  smile  for  his  trouble,  and  a  '  thank 
you,  Bennie, '  that  he  will  not  soon  forget.  Was  n't  it  pleasant 
in  Miss  Emily,  Willie  1 

"Mr.  Graham  has  given  me  a  garden,  and  I  mean  to  have 
plenty  of  flowers  for  her  by  and  by,  —  that  is,  if  Mrs.  Ellis 
doesn't  interfere;  but  I  expect  she  will,  for  she  does  in  almost 
everything.  Willie,  Mrs.  Ellis  is  my  trial,  my  great  trial. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  127 

She  is  just  the  kind  of  person  I  cannot  endure.  I  believe 
there  are  some  people  that  other  people  can't  like,  — and  she 
is  just  the  sort  I  can't.  I  would  not  tell  anybody  else  so, 
because  it  would  not  be  right,  and  I  do  not  know  as  it  is  right 
to  mention  it  at  all;  but  I  always  tell  you  everything.  Miss 
Emily  talks  to  me  about  her,  and  says  I  must  learn  to  love 
her ;  and  when  I  do  I  shall  be  an  angel. 

"There,  I  know  you  will  think  that  is  some  of  Gerty's  old 
temper;  and  perhaps  it  is,  but  you  don't  know  how  she  tries 
me:  it  is  in  little  things  that  I  cannot  tell  very  easily,  and  I 
would  not  plague  you  with  them  if  I  could,  so  I  won't  write 
about  her  any  more,  —  I  will  try  to  be  perfect,  and  love  her 
dearly. 

"  You  will  think  that  now,  while  I  am  not  going  to  school, 
I  shall  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  my  time;  but  I  have 
plenty  to  do.  The  first  week  after  we  came  here,  however,  I 
found  the  mornings  very  dull.  You  know  I  am  always  an 
early  riser;  but  as  it  does  not  agree  with  Miss  Emily  to  keep 
early  hours,  I  never  see  her  until  eight  o'clock,  full  two  hours 
after  I  am  up  and  dressed.  When  we  were  in  Boston,  I  al 
ways  spent  that  time  studying;  but  this  spring  Miss  Emily, 
who  noticed  that  I  was  growing  fast,  and  heard  Mr.  Arnold 
observe  how  pale  I  looked,  fancied  it  would  not  do  for  me  to 
spend  so  much  time  at  my  books;  and  so,  when  we  came  to 

D ,  she  planned  my  study  hours,  which  are  very  few,  and 

arranged  that  they  should  take  place  after  breakfast  and  in  her 
own  room.  She  also  advised  me,  if  I  could,  to  sleep  later  in 
the  morning;  but  I  could  not,  and  was  up  at  my  usual  time, 
wandering  around  the  garden.  One  day  I  was  quite  surprised 
to  find  Mr.  Graham  at  work,  for  it  was  not  like  his  winter 
habits ;  but  he  is  a  queer  man.  He  asked  me  to  come  and  help 
him  plant  onion  seeds,  and  I  rather  think  I  did  it  pretty  well; 
for  after  that  he  let  me  help  him  plant  a  number  of  things,  and 
label  little  sticks  to  put  down  by  the  side  of  them.  At  last, 
to  my  joy,  he  offered  to  give  me  a  piece  of  ground  for  a  garden, 
where  I  might  raise  flowers.  He  does  not  care  for  flowers, 
which  seems  so  strange ;  he  only  raises  vegetables  and  trees. 

"And  so  I  am  to  have  a  garden.  But  I  am  making  a  very 
long  story,  Willie,  and  have  not  time  to  say  a  thousand  other 
things  that  I  want  to.  0 !  if  I  could  see  you,  I  could  tell  you 
in  an  hour  more  than  I  can  write  in  a  week.  In  five  minutes 


128  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

I  expect  to  hear  Miss  Emily's  bell,  and  then  she  will  send  for 
me  to  come  and  read  to  her. 

"I  long  to  hear  from  you,  dear  Willie,  and  pray  to  God, 
morning  and  evening,  to  keep  you  in  safety,  and  soon  send 
tidings  of  you  to  your  loving 

GERTY." 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  129 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

Is  it  not  lovely  ?    Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  fay  that  wrought  so  beautiful  a  spell  ?  — 
In  thine  own  bosom,  brother,  didst  thou  say  ? 
Then  cherish  as  thine  own  so  good  a  fay. 

DANA. 

A  FEW  weeks  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  Gerty  learned 
through  George,  who  went  daily  to  the  city  to  attend  to  the 
marketing,  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  left  word  at  the  shop  of  our 
old  acquaintance,  the  rosy-cheeked  butcher,  that  she  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  Willie,  and  wanted  Gerty  to  come  into 
town  and  see  it.  Emily  was  willing  to  let  her  go,  but  afraid  it 
would  be  impossible  to  arrange  it,  as  Charlie,  the  only  horse  Mr. 
Graham  kept,  was  in  use,  and  she  saw  no  way  of  sending  her. 

"Why  don't  you  let  her  go  in  the  omnibus?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ellis. 

Gerty  looked  gratefully  at  Mrs.  Ellis;  it  was  the  first  time 
that  lady  had  ever  seemed  anxious  to  promote  her  views. 

"I  don't  think  it's  safe  for  her  to  go  alone  in  the  coach," 
said  Emily. 

"Safe!  What,  for  that  great  girl !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellis, 
whose  position  in  the  family  was  such  that  there  were  no  forms 
of  restraint  in  her  intercourse  with  Miss  Graham. 

"Do  you  think  it  is? "  inquired  Emily.  "She  seems  a  child 
to  me,  to  be  sure ;  but  as  you  say,  she  is  almost  grown  up,  and 
I  dare  say  is  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  Gertrude,  are 
you  sure  you  know  the  way  from  the  omnibus  office  in  Boston 
to  Mrs.  Sullivan's?" 

"Perfectly  well,  Miss  Emily." 

Without  further  hesitation,  two  tickets  for  the  coach  were 
put  into  Gertrude's  hand,  and  she  set  forth  on  her  expedition 
with  beaming  eyes  and  a  full  heart.  She  found  Mrs.  Sullivan 
and  Mr.  Cooper  well,  and  rejoicing  over  the  happiest  tidings 
from  Willie,  who,  after  a  long  but  agreeable  voyage,  had 
reached  Calcutta  in  health  and  safety.  A  description  of  his 


130  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

new  home,  his  new  duties,  and  employers  filled  all  the  rest  of 
the  letter,  excepting  what  was  devoted  to  affectionate  messages 
and  inquiries,  a  large  share  of  which  were  for  Gerty.  Gertrude 
stayed  and  dined  with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  then  hastened  to  the 
omnibus.  She  took  her  seat,  and  as  she  waited  for  the  coach 
to  start,  amused  herself  with  watching  the  passers-by.  It  was 
nearly  three  o'clock,  and  she  was  beginning  to  think  she  should 
be  the  only  passenger,  when  she  heard  a  strange  voice  proceed 
ing  from  a  person  whose  approach  she  had  not  perceived.  She 
moved  towards  the  door,  and  saw  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
coach  the  most  singular  looking  being  she  had  ever  beheld. 
It  was  an  old  lady,  small,  and  considerably  bent  with  years. 
Gertrude  knew  at  a  glance  that  the  same  original  mind  must 
have  conceived  and  executed  every  article  of  the  most  remark 
able  toilet  she  had  ever  witnessed.  But  before  she  could  ob 
serve  the  details  of  that  which  was  as  a  whole  so  wonderfully 
grotesque,  her  whole  attention  was  arrested  by  the  peculiar  be 
havior  of  the  old  lady. 

She  had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  mount  the  inconvenient 
vehicle,  and  now,  with  one  foot  upon  the  lower  step,  was  call 
ing  to  the  driver  to  come  to  her  assistance. 

"Sir,"  said  she,  in  measured  tones,  "is  this  travelling  equi 
page  under  your  honorable  charge  ?  " 

"What  say,  marm?  Yes,  I'm  the  driver;"  saying  which, 
he  came  up  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  without  waiting  for  the 
polite  request  which  was  on  the  old  lady's  lips,  placed  his  hand 
beneath  her  elbow,  and  before  she  was  aware  of  his  intention 
lifted  her  into  the  coach  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Bless  me ! "  ejaculated  she,  as  she  seated  herself  opposite 
Gertrude,  and  began  to  arrange  her  veil  and  other  draperies, 
"  that  individual  is  not  versed  in  the  art  of  assisting  a  lady  with 
out  detriment  to  her  habiliments.  O  dear,  0  dear !  "  added  she 
in  the  same  breath,  "I  've  lost  my  parasol!  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  but  the  sudden  starting  of  the  coach 
threw  her  off  her  balance,  and  she  would  have  fallen,  had  it 
not  been  for-  Gertrude,  who  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  reseated 
her,  saying  as  she  did  so,  "  Do  not  be  alarmed,  madam ;  here  is 
the  parasol." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  into  view  the  missing  article,  which, 
though  nearly  the  size  of  an  umbrella,  was  fastened  to  the  old 
lady's  waist  by  a  green  ribbon,  and  having  slipped  out  of  place 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  131 

was  supposed  lost.  And  not  a  parasol  only  did  she  thus  bring 
to  light ;  numerous  other  articles,  arranged  in  the  same  manner, 
and  connected  with  the  same  green  string,  now  met  Gertrude's 
astonished  eyes,  —  a  reticule  of  unusual  dimensions  and  a  great 
variety  of  colors,  a  black  lace  cap,  a  large  feather  fan,  a  roll  of 
fancy  paper,  and  several  other  articles.  They  were  partly  hid 
den  under  a  thin  black  silk  shawl,  and  Gertrude  began  to  think 
her  companion  had  been  on  a  pilfering  expedition.  If  so,  how 
ever,  the  culprit  seemed  remarkably  at  her  ease,  for  before  the 
coach  had  gone  many  steps  she  deliberately  placed  her  feet  on 
the  opposite  seat,  and  proceeded  to  make  herself  comfortable. 
In  the  first  place,  much  to  Gertrude's  horror,  she  took  out  all 
her  teeth  and  put  them  in  her  work-bag ;  then  drew  off  a  pair 
of  black  silk  gloves,  and  replaced  them  by  cotton  ones;  re 
moved  her  lace  veil,  folded  and  pinned  it  to  the  green  string. 
She  next  untied  her  bonnet,  threw  over  it,  as  a  protection  from 
the  dust,  a  large  cotton  handkerchief,  and  with  some  difficulty 
unloosing  her  fan,  applied  herself  diligently  to  the  use  of  it, 
closing  her  eyes  as  she  did  so,  and  evidently  intending  to  go  to 
sleep.  She  probably  did  fall  into  a  doze,  for  she  was  very 
quiet,  and  Gertrude,  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  and  with 
observing  some  heavy  clouds  that  were  arising  from  the  west, 
forgot  to  observe  her  fellow  traveller,  until  she  was  startled  by 
a  hand  suddenly  laid  upon  her  own,  and  an  abrupt  exclamation 
of  "My  dear  young  damsel,  do  not  those  dark  shadows  betoken 
adverse  weather  1 " 

"I  think  it  will  rain  very  soon,"  replied  Gertrude. 

"This  morn,  when  I  ventured  forth,"  soliloquized  the  old 
lady,  "the  sun  was  bright,  the  sky  serene;  even  the  winged 
songsters,  as  they  piped  their  hymns,  proclaimed  their  part  in 
the  universal  joy ;  and  now,  before  I  can  regain  my  retirement, 
my  delicate  lace  flounces  (and  she  glanced  at  the  skirt  of  her 
dress)  will  prove  a  sacrifice  to  the  pitiless  storm." 

"Doesn't  the  coach  pass  your  door?  "  inquired  Gertrude,  her 
compassion  excited  by  the  old  lady's  evident  distress. 

"No!  0,  no!  not  within  half  a  mile.  Does  it  better  accom 
modate  you,  my  young  miss?  " 

"No.      I  have  a  mile  to  walk  beyond  the  omnibus  office." 

The  old  lady,  moved  by  a  deep  sympathy,  drew  nearer  to 
Gertrude,  saying  in  the  most  doleful  accents,  "Alas  for  the 
delicate  whiteness  of  your  bonnet  ribbon !  " 


132  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

The  coach  had  by  this  time  reached  its  destination,  and  the 
two  passengers  alighted.  Gertrude  placed  her  ticket  in  the 
driver's  hand,  and  would  have  started  at  once  on  her  walk,  but 
was  prevented  by  the  old  lady,  who  grasped  her  dress,  and 
begged  her  to  wait  for  her,  as  she  was  going  the  same  way. 
And  now  great  difficulty  and  delay  ensued.  The  old  lady  re 
fused  to  pay  the  amount  of  fare  demanded  by  the  driver;  de 
clared  it  was  not  the  regular  fare,  and  accused  the  man  of  an 
intention  to  put  the  surplus  of  two  cents  in  his  own  pocket. 
Gertrude  was  impatient,  for  she  was  every  moment  expecting 
to  see  the  rain  pour  in  torrents;  but  at  last  the  matter  being 
compromised  between  the  driver  and  his  closely  calculating 
passenger,  she  was  permitted  to  proceed.  They  had  walked 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  that  at  a  very  slow  rate,  when 
the  rain  commenced  falling ;  and  now  Gertrude  was  called  upon 
to  unloose  the  huge  parasol,  and  carry  it  over  her  companion 
and  herself.  In  this  way  they  had  accomplished  nearly  as 
much  more  of  the  distance,  when  the  water  began  to  descend 
as  if  all  the  reservoirs  of  heaven  were  at  once  thrown  open. 
At  this  moment  Gertrude  heard  a  step  behind  them,  and  turn 
ing  she  saw  George,  Mr.  Graham's  man,  running  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  house.  He  recognized  her  at  once,  and  exclaimed, 
"Miss  Gertrude,  you'll  be  wet  through;  and  Miss  Pace,  too," 
added  he,  seeing  Gerty's  companion.  "Sure  and  ye 'd  better 
baith  hasten  to  her  house,  where  ye  '11  be  secure." 

So  saying,  he  caught  Miss  Pace  in  his  arms,  and  signing  to 
Gertrude  to  follow,  rushed  across  the  street,  arid  hurrying  on 
to  a  cottage  near  by,  did  not  stop  until  he  had  placed  the  old 
lady  in  safety  beneath  her  own  porch ;  and  Gerty  at  the  same 
instant  gained  its  shelter.  Miss  Pace  —  for  such  was  the  old 
lady's  name  —  was  so  bewildered  that  it  took  her  some  minutes 
to  recover  her  consciousness ;  and  in  the  mean  time  it  was  ar 
ranged  that  Gertrude  should  stop  where  she  was  for  an  hour  or 
two,  and  that  George  should  call  for  her  when  he  passed  that 
way  with  the  carriage,  on  his  return  from  the  depot,  where  he 
went  regularly  on  three  afternoons  in  the  week  for  Mr.  Graham. 

Miss  Patty  Pace  was  not  generally  considered  a  person  of 
much  hospitality.  She  owned  the  cottage  which  she  occupied, 
and  lived  there  quite  alone,  keeping  no  servants  and  entertain 
ing  no  visitors.  She  was  herself  a  famous  visitor;  and  as  but 
a  small  part  of  her  life  had  been  passed  in  D ,  and  all  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  133 

friends  and  connections  lived  either  in  Boston  or  at  a  much 
greater  distance,  she  was  a  constant  frequenter  of  omnibuses 
and  other  public  vehicles.  But  though,  through  her  travelling 
propensities  and  her  regular  attendance  at  church,  she  was  well 
known,  Gertrude  was,  perhaps,  the  first  visitor  that  had  ever 
entered  her  house;  and  she,  as  we  have  seen,  could  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  come  by  invitation. 

Even  when  she  was  at  the  very  door,  she  found  herself 
obliged  to  take  the  old  lady's  key,  unlock  and  open  it  herself, 
and  finally  lead  her  hostess  into  the  parlor,  and  help  her  oif 
with  her  innumerable  capes,,  shawls,  and  veils.  Once  come  to 
a  distinct  consciousness  of  her  situation,  however,  and  Miss 
Patty  Pace  conducted  herself  with  all  the  elegant  politeness  for 
which  she  was  remarkable.  Suffering  though  she  evidently 
was  with  a  thousand  regrets  at  the  trying  experience  her  own 
clothes  had  sustained,  she  commanded  herself  sufficiently  to 
express  nearly  as  many  fears  lest  Gertrude  had  ruined  every 
article  of  her  dress.  It  was  only  after  many  assurances  from 
the  latter  that  her  boots  were  scarcely  wet  at  all,  her  gingham 
dress  and  cape  not  likely  to  be  hurt  by  rain,  and  her  nice  straw 
bonnet  safe  under  the  scarf  she  had  thrown  over  it,  that  Miss 
Patty  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  so  far  forget  the  duties  of  a 
hostess  as  to  retire  and  change  her  lace  flounces  for  something 
more  suitable  for  home  wear. 

As  soon  as  she  left  the  room,  Gertrude,  whose  curiosity  was 
wonderfully  excited,  hastened  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  numbers 
of  articles,  both  of  ornament  and  use,  which  had  already  at 
tracted  her  attention  from  their  odd  and  singular  appearance. 

Miss  Pace's  parlor  was  as  remarkable  as  its  owner.  Its  fur 
niture,  like  her  apparel,  was  made  up  of  the  gleanings  of  every 
age  and  fashion,  from  chairs  that  undoubtedly  came  over  in 
the  Mayflower,  to  feeble  attempts  at  modern  pincushions,  and 
imitations  of  crystallized  grass,  that  were  a  complete  failure. 
Gertrude's  quick  and  observing  eye  was  revelling  amid  the  few 
relics  of  ancient  elegance,  and  the  numerous  specimens  of  folly 
and  bad  taste,  with  which  the  room  was  filled,  when  the  old 
lady  returned. 

A  neat  though  quaint  black  dress  having  taken  the  place  of 
the  much  valued  flounces,  she  now  looked  far  more  ladylike. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  tumbler  of  pepper  and  water,  and 
begged  her  visitor  to  drink,  assuring  her  it  would  warm  her 


134  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

stomach  and  prevent  her  taking  cold;  and  when  Gertrude,  who 
could  only  with  great  difficulty  keep  from  laughing  in  her  face, 
declined  the  beverage,  Miss  Patty  seated  herself,  and  while  en 
joying  the  refreshment,  carried  on  a  conversation  which  at  one 
moment  satisfied  her  visitor  she  was  a  woman  of  sense,  and  the 
next  persuaded  her  that  she  was  either  foolish  or  insane. 

The  impression  which  Gertrude  made  upon  Miss  Patty,  how 
ever,  was  more  decided.  Miss  Patty  was  delighted  with  the 
young  miss,  who,  she  declared,  possessed  an  intellect  that  would 
do  honor  to  a  queen,  a  figure  that  was  airy  as  a  gazelle,  and 
motions  more  graceful  than  those  of  a  swan. 

When  George  came  for  Gertrude,  Miss  Pace,  who  seemed 
really  sorry  to  part  with  her,  cordially  invited  her  to  come 
again,  and  Gertrude  promised  to  do  so. 

The  satisfactory  news  from  Willie,  and  the  amusing  adven 
tures  of  the  afternoon,  had  given  to  Gertrude  such  a  feeling 
of  buoyancy  and  light-heartedness,  that  she  bounded  into  the 
house  and  up  the  stairs  with  that  fairy  quickness  Uncle  True 
had  so  loved  to  see  in  her,  and  which,  since  his  death,  her 
subdued  spirits  had  rarely  permitted  her  to  exercise.  She  has 
tened  to  her  own  room  to  remove  her  bonnet  and  change  her 
dress  before  seeking  Emily,  to  whom  she  longed  to  communi 
cate  the  events  of  the  day. 

At  the  door  of  her  room  she  met  Bridget,  the  housemaid, 
with  a  dustpan,  hand-broom,  etc.  On  inquiring  what  was 
going  on  there  at  this  unusual  hour,  she  learned  that  during 
her  absence  her  room,  which  had  since  their  removal  been  in 
some  confusion,  owing  to  Mrs.  Ellis' s  not  having  decided  what 
furniture  should  be  placed  there,  had  been  subjected  to  a  thor 
ough  and  comprehensive  system  of  spring  cleaning.  Alarmed, 
though  she  scarcely  knew  why,  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Ellis  having 
invaded  her  premises,  she  surveyed  the  apartment  with  a  slight 
feeling  of  agitation,  which,  as  she  continued  her  observations, 
swelled  into  a  storm  of  angry  excitement. 

When  Gertrude  went  from  Mrs.  Sullivan's  to  Mr.  Graham's 
house  in  the  city,  she  carried  with  her,  beside  a  trunk  contain 
ing  her  wardrobe,  an  old  bandbox,  which  she  stored  away  on 
the  shelf  of  a  closet  in  her  chamber. 

There  it  remained  during  the  winter,  unpacked  and  unob 
served  by  any  one.  When  the  family  went  into  the  country, 
however,  the  box  went  also,  carefully  watched  and  protected 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  135 

by  its  owner.  As  there  was  no  closet  or  other  hiding  place  in 
Gertrude's  new  room,  she  placed  it  in  a  corner  behind  the  bed, 
and  the  evening  before  her  expedition  to  the  city  had  been  en 
gaged  in  removing  and  inspecting  a  part  of  its  contents.  Each 
article  was  endeared  to  her  by  the  charm  of  old  association,  and 
many  a  tear  had  the  little  maiden  shed  over  her  stock  of  valu 
ables.  There  was  the  figure  of  the  Samuel,  Uncle  True's  first 
gift,  now  defaced  by  time  and  accident.  As  she  surveyed  a 
severe  contusion  on  the  back  of  the  head,  the  effect  of  an  inad 
vertent  knock  given  it  by  True  himself,  and  remembered  how 
patiently  the  dear  old  man  labored  to  repair  the  injury,  she  felt 
that  she  would  not  part  with  the  much  valued  memento  for  the 
world.  There,  too,  were  his  pipes,  of  common  clay,  and  dark 
with  smoke  and  age;  but  as  she  thought  how  much  comfort 
they  had  been  to  him,  she  felt  that  the  possession  of  them  was 
a  consolation  to  her.  She  had  brought  away,  too,  his  lantern, 
for  she  had  not  forgotten  its  pleasant  light,  the  first  that  ever 
fell  upon  the  darkness  of  her  life;  nor  could  she  leave  behind 
an  old  fur  cap,  beneath  which  she  had  often  sought  a  kindly 
smile,  and  never  having  sought  in  vain,  could  hardly  realize 
that  there  was  not  one  for  her  still  hidden  beneath  its  crown. 
There  were  some  toys  too,  and  picture  books,  gifts  from  Willie, 
a  little  basket  he  had  carved  for  her  from  a  nut,  and  a  few 
other  trifles. 

All  these  things,  excepting  the  lantern  and  cap,  Gertrude 
had  left  upon  the  mantel-piece;  and  now,  upon  entering  the 
room,  her  eye  at  once  sought  her  treasures.  They  were  gone. 
The  mantel-piece  was  nicely  dusted  and  quite  empty.  She  ran 
towards  the  corner  where  she  had  left  the  old  box.  That,  too, 
was  gone.  To  rush  after  the  retreating  housemaid,  call  her 
back,  and  pour  forth  a  succession  of  eager  inquiries,  was  but 
the  work  of  an  instant. 

Bridget  was  a  newcomer,  a  remarkably  stupid  specimen,  but 
Gertrude  contrived  to  obtain  from  her  all  the  information  she 
needed.  The  image,  the  pipes,  and  the  lantern  were  thrown 
among  a  heap  of  broken  glass  and  crockery,  and  as  Bridget 
declared,  smashed  all  to  nothing.  The  cap,  pronounced  moth- 
eaten,  had  been  condemned  to  the  flames;  and  the  other  arti 
cles,  Bridget  could  not  be  sure,  but  "troth,  she  belaved  she 
was  just  afther  laving  them  in  the  fireplace."  And  all  this  in 
strict  accordance  with  Mrs.  Ellis' s  orders.  Gertrude  allowed 


136  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

Bridget  to  depart  unaware  of  the  greatness  of  her  loss;  then 
shutting  the  door,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  gave 
way  to  a  violent  fit  of  weeping. 

So  this,  thought  she,  was  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Ellis  was  so 
willing  to  forward  my  plans,  —  and  I  was  foolish  enough  to 
believe  it  was  for  my  own  sake !  She  wanted  to  come  here  and 
rob  me,  the  thief! 

She  rose  from  the  bed  as  suddenly  as  she  had  thrown  herself 
down,  and  started  for  the  door;  then  some  new  thought  seem 
ing  to  check  her,  she  returned  again  to  the  bedside,  and  with 
a  loud  sob,  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Once  or  twice  she  lifted  her  head,  and  seemed  on  the 
point  of  rising  and  going  to  face  her  enemy.  But  each  time 
something  came  across  her  mind  and  detained  her.  It  was  not 
fear,  —  0,  no !  Gertrude  was  not  afraid  of  anybody.  It  must 
have  been  some  stronger  motive  than  that.  Whatever  it  might 
be,  it  was  something  that  had,  on  the  whole,  a  soothing  influ 
ence  ;  for  after  every  fresh  struggle  she  grew  calmer,  and  pre 
sently,  rising,  seated  herself  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand,  and  looked  out.  The  window  was  open; 
the  shower  was  over,  and  the  smiles  of  the  refreshed  and  beau 
tiful  earth  were  reflected  in  a  glowing  rainbow,  that  spanned 
the  eastern  horizon.  A  little  bird  came  and  perched  on  a 
branch  of  a  tree  close  to  the  window,  and  shouted  forth  a  Te 
Deum.  A  Persian  lilac-bush  in  full  bloom  sent  up  a  delicious 
fragrance.  A  wonderful  composure  stole  into  Gertrude's  heart, 
and  ere  she  had  sat  there  many  minutes  she  felt  "the  grace 
that  brings  peace  succeed  to  the  passions  that  produce  trouble." 
She  had  conquered;  she  had  achieved  the  greatest  of  earth's 
victories,  a  victory  over  herself.  The  brilliant  rainbow,  the 
carol  of  the  bird,  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms,  all  the  bright 
things  that  gladdened  the  earth  after  the  sto.rm,  were  not  half 
so  beautiful  as  the  light  that  overspread  the  face  of  the  young 
girl  when,  the  storm  within  her  laid  at  rest,  she  looked  up  to 
heaven,  and  her  heart  sent  forth  its  silent  offering  of  praise. 

The  sound  of  the  tea-bell  startled  her.  She  hastened  to 
bathe  her  face  and  brush  her  hair,  and  then  went  down  stairs. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  dining-room  but  Mrs.  Ellis;  Mr. 
Graham  had  been  detained  in  town,  and  Emily  was  suffering 
with  a  severe  headache.  Consequently,  Gertrude  took  tea  alone 
with  Mrs.  Ellis.  The  latter,  though  unaware  of  the  great 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  137 

value  Gertrude  attached  to  her  old  relics,  was  conscious  she 
had  done  an  unkind  thing;  and  as  the  injured  party  gave  no 
evidence  of  anger  or  ill-will,  not  even  mentioning  the  subject, 
the  aggressor  felt  more  uncomfortable  and  mortified  than  she 
would  have  been  willing  to  allow.  The  matter  was  never  re 
curred  to,  but  Mrs.  Ellis  experienced  a  stinging  consciousness 
of  the  fact  that  Gertrude  had  shown  a  superiority  to  herself  in 
point  of  forbearance. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Prime,  the  cook,  came  to  the  door  of 
Emily's  room,  and  obtaining  a  ready  admittance,  produced  the 
little  basket  made  of  a  nut,  saying,  "I  wonder  now,  Miss  Emily, 
where  Miss  Gertrude  is,  for  I  've  found  her  little  basket  in  the 
coal-hod,  and  I  guess  she  '11  be  right  glad  on  't  —  t'  ain't  hurt  a 
mite."  Emily  inquired,  "What  basket1?"  and  the  cook,  pla 
cing  it  in  her  hands,  proceeded  with  eagerness  to  give  an  account 
of  the  destruction  of  Gertrude's  property,  which  she  had  her 
self  witnessed  with  great  indignation.  She  also  gave  a  piteous 
description  of  the  distress  the  young  girl  manifested  in  her 
questioning  of  Bridget,  which  the  sympathizing  cook  had  over 
heard  from  her  own  not  very  distant  chamber. 

As  Emily  listened  to  the  story,  she  well  remembered  having 
thought,  the  previous  afternoon,  that  she  heard  Gertrude  sob 
bing  in  her  room,  which  on  one  side  adjoined  her  own,  but 
that  she  afterwards  concluded  herself  to  have  been  mistaken. 
"Go,"  said  she,  "and  carry  the  basket  to  Gertrude;  she  is  in 
the  little  library;  but  please,  Mrs.  Prime,  don't  tell  her  that 
you  have  mentioned  the  matter  to  me."  Emily  expected  for 
several  days  to  hear  from  Gertrude  the  story  of  her  injuries; 
but  Gertrude  kept  her  trouble  to  herself,  and  bore  it  in  silence. 

This  was  the  first  instance  of  complete  self-control  in  Gerty, 
and  the  last  we  shall  have  occasion  to  dwell  upon.  From  this 
time  she  continued  to  experience  more  and  more  the  power 
of  governing  herself;  and  with  each  new  effort  gaining  new 
strength,  became  at  last  a  wonder  to  those  who  knew  the  tem 
perament  she  had  had  to  contend  with.  She  was  now  nearly 
fourteen  years  old,  and  so  rapid  had  been  her  recent  growth 
that,  instead  of  being  below  the  usual  stature,  she  was  taller 
than  most  girls  of  her  age.  Freedom  from  study,  and  plenty 
of  air  and  exercise,  prevented  her,  however,  from  suffering 
from  this  circumstance. 

Her  garden  was  a  source  of  great  pleasure  to  her,  and  flowers 


138  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

seeming  to  prosper  under  her  careful  training,  she  had  always 
a  bouquet  ready  to  place  by  Emily's  plate  at  breakfast-time. 

Occasionally  she  went  to  see  her  friend  Miss  Patty  Pace,  and 
always  met  with  a  cordial  reception.  Miss  Patty's  attention 
was  very  much  engrossed  by  the  manufacture  of  paper  flowers, 
and  as  Gertrude's  garden  furnished  the  models,  she  seldom 
went  empty-handed;  but  the  old  lady's  success  being  very  ill 
proportioned  to  her  efforts,  it  would  have  been  a  libel  upon 
nature  to  pronounce  even  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  this 
sort  of  fancy-work  true  copies  of  the  original.  Miss  Patty  was 
satisfied,  however;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  her  various 
friends,  for  whom  the  large  bunches  were  intended  that  travelled 
about  tied  to  her  waist  by  the  green  string,  were  satisfied  also. 

Miss  Patty  seemed  to  have  a  great  many  friends.  Judging 
from  the  numbers  of  people  that  she  talked  about  to  Gertrude, 
the  latter  concluded  she  must  be  acquainted  with  everybody  in 
Boston.  And  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find  any  one  whose 
intercourse  extended  to  a  wider  circle.  She  had,  in  her  youth, 
learned  an  upholsterer's  trade,  which  she  had  practised  for 
many  years  in  the  employment  (as  she  said)  of  the  first  families 
in  the  city ;  and  so  observing  was  she,  and  so  acute  in  her  judg 
ment,  that  a  report  at  one  time  prevailed  that  Miss  Pace  had 
eyes  in  the  back  of  her  head,  and  two  pair  of  ears.  Notwith 
standing  her  wonderful  visionary  and  comprehending  powers, 
she  had  never  been  known  to  make  mischief  in  families.  She 
was  prudent  and  conscientious,  and  though  always  peculiar  in 
her  habits  and  modes  of  expression,  and  so  wild  in  some  of  her 
fancies  as  to  be  often  thought  by  strangers  a  little  out,  she  had 
secured  and  continued  to  retain  the  good-will  of  a  great  many 
kindly  disposed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  at  whose  houses  she  was 
always  well  received  and  politely  treated.  She  calculated,  in 
the  course  of  every  year,  to  go  the  rounds  among  all  these 
friends,  and  thus  kept  up  her  intimacy  with  households  in 
every  member  of  which  she  felt  a  warm  personal  interest. 

Miss  Patty  labored  under  one  great  and  absorbing  regret,  and 
frequently  expatiated  to  Gertrude  on  the  subject;  it  was,  that 
she  was  without  a  companion.  "Ah,  Miss  Gertrude,"  she 
would  sometimes  exclaim,  seeming  for  the  time  quite  forgetful 
of  her  age  and  infirmities,  "I  should  do  vastly  well  in  this 
world,  if  I  only  had  a  companion ; "  and  here,  with  a  slight  toss 
of  the  head  and  a  little,  smirking  air,  she  would  add,  in  a 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  139 

Whisper,  "and  you  must  know,  my  dear,  I  somewhat  meditate 
matrimony."  Then  seeing  Gertrude's  look  of  surprise  and 
amusement,  she  would  apologize  for  having  so  long  delayed 
fulfilling  what  had  always  been  her  intention;  and  at  the  same 
time  that  she  admitted  not  being  as  young  as  she  had  once 
been,  would  usually  close  with  the  remark,  "  It  is  true,  time  is 
inexorable;  but  I  cling  to  life,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  cling  to  life, 
and  may  marry  yet." 

On  the  subject  of  fashion,  too,  she  would  declaim  at  great 
length,  avowing,  for  her  own  part,  a  rigid  determination  to  be 
modern,  whatever  the  cost  might  be.  Gertrude  could  not  fail 
to  observe  that  she  had  failed  in  this  intention  as  signally  as 
in  that  of  securing  a  youthful  swain;  and  she  was  also  gradu 
ally  led  to  conclude  that  Miss  Pace,  whatever  might  be  her 
means,  was  a  terrible  miser.  Emily,  who  knew  the  old  lady 
very  well,  and  had  often  employed  her,  did  not  oppose  Ger 
trude's  visits  to  the  cottage,  and  sometimes  accompanied  her; 
for  Emily  loved  to  be  amused,  and  Miss  Patty's  quaint  conver 
sation  was  as  great  a  treat  to  her  as  to  Gertrude.  These  calls 
were  so  promptly  returned,  that  it  was  made  very  evident  that 
Miss  Patty  preferred  doing  the  greater  part  of  the  visiting  her 
self;  observing  which,  Emily  gave  her  a  general  invitation  to 
the  house,  of  which  she  was  not  slow  to  avail  herself. 


140  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER  XIX 

More  health,  dear  maid,  thy  soothing  presence  brings, 
Than  purest  skies,  or  salutary  springs. 

MRS.  BARBAULD. 

PERSONS  who  own  residences  within  six  miles  of  a  large  city 
cannot  be  properly  said  to  enjoy  country  life.  They  have  large 
gardens,  oftentimes  extensive  grounds,  and  raise  their  own  fruit 
and  vegetables;  they  usually  keep  horses,  drive  about  and  take 
the  air.  Some  maintain  quite  a  barnyard  establishment,  and 
pride  themselves  upon  their  fat  cattle  and  Shanghae  fowls. 
But,  after  all,  these  suburban  residents  do  not  taste  the  charms 
of  true  country  life.  There  are  no  pathless  woods,  no  roaring 
brooks,  no  waving  fields  of  grain,  no  wide  stretches  of  pasture 
land.  Every  eminence  commands  a  view  of  the  near  metropo 
lis,  the  hum  of  which  is  almost  audible;  and  every  hourly 
omnibus,  or  train  of  cars,  carries  one's  self,  or  one's  neighbor, 
to  or  from  the  busy  mart. 

Those  who  seek  retirement  and  seclusion,  however,  can  no 
where  be  more  sure  to  find  it  than  in  one  of  these  half-country, 
half-city  homes ;  and  many  a  family  will,  summer  after  summer, 
resort  to  the  same  quiet  corner,  and  undisturbed  by  visitors 
or  gossip,  maintain  an  independence  of  life  which  would  be 
quite  impossible  either  in  the  crowded  streets  of  the  town, 
where  one's  acquaintances  are  forever  dropping  in,  or  in  the 
strictly  country  villages,  where  every  newcomer  is  observed, 
called  upon,  and  talked  about. 

Mr.  Graham's  establishment  was  of  the  medium  order,  and 
little  calculated  to  attract  notice.  The  garden  was  certainly 
very  beautiful,  abounding  in  rich  shrubbery,  summer-houses, 
and  arbors  covered  with  grapevines;  but  a  high  board  fence 
hid  it  from  public  view,  and  the  house,  standing  back  from 
the  road,  was  rather  old-fashioned  and  very  unobtrusive  in  its 
appearance. 

Excepting  his  horticultural  propensities,  Mr.  Graham's  asso 
ciations  were  all  connected  with  the  city;  and  Emily,  being 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  141 

unfitted  for  much  general  intercourse  with  society,  entertained 
little  company,  save  that  of  the  neighbors  who  made  formal 
calls,  and  some  particular  friends,  such  as  Mr.  Arnold,  the 
clergyman,  and  a  few  intimates,  who  often  towards  evening 
drove  out  of  town  to  see  Emily  and  eat  fruit. 

The  summer  was  passing  away  most  happily,  and  Gertrude, 
in  the  constant  enjoyment  of  Emily's  society,  and  in  the  con 
sciousness  that  she  was,  in  various  ways,  rendering  herself  use 
ful  and  important  to  this  excellent  friend,  was  finding  in  every 
day  new  causes  of  contentment  and  rejoicing,  when  a  seal  was 
suddenly  set  to  all  her  pleasure. 

Emily  was  taken  ill  with  a  fever,  and  Gertrude,  on  occasion 
of  her  first  undertaking  to  enter  the  sick-room,  and  share  in 
its  duties,  was  rudely  repulsed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  consti 
tuted  herself  sole  nurse,  and  who  declared,  when  the  poor  girl 
pleaded  hard  to  be  admitted,  that  the  fever  was  catching,  and 
Miss  Emily  did  not  want  her  there,  —  that  when  she  was  sick 
she  never  wanted  any  one  about  her  but  herself. 

For  three  or  four  days  Gertrude  wandered  about  the  house 
inconsolable.  On  the  fifth  morning  after  her  banishment  from 
the  room,  she  saw  Mrs.  Prime,  the  cook,  going  upstairs  with 
some  gruel ;  and  thrusting  into  her  hand  some  beautiful  rose 
buds,  which  she  had  just  gathered,  she  begged  her  to  give  them 
to  Emily,  and  ask  if  she  might  not  come  in  and  see  her. 

She  lingered  about  the  kitchen  awaiting  Mrs.  Prime's  return, 
in  hopes  of  some  message  at  least  from  the  sufferer.  But  when 
the  cook  came  down  the  flowers  were  still  in  her  hand,  and  as 
she  threw  them  on  the  table,  the  kind-hearted  woman  gave 
vent  to  her  feelings. 

"Well!  folks  do  say  that  first-rate  cooks  and  nurses  are  allers 
as  cross  as  bears!  'T  ain't  for  me  to  say  whether  it 's  so  'bout 
cooks,  but  'bout  nurses  there  ain't  no  sort  o'  doubt!  I  would 
not  want  to  go  there,  Miss  Gertrude;  I  wouldn't  insure  you 
but  what  she  'd  bite  your  head  off." 

"Wouldn't  Miss  Emily  take  the  flowers ?"  asked  Gertrude, 
looking  quite  grieved. 

"Well,  she  hadn't  no  word  in  the  matter.  You  know  she 
couldn't  see  what  they  were,  and  Mis'  Ellis  flung  'em  outside 
the  door,  vowin'  I  might  as  well  bring  pison  into  the  room 
with  a  fever  as  them  roses.  I  tried  to  speak  to  Miss  Emily, 
but  Mis'  Ellis  set  up  such  a  hush-sh-sh  I  s' posed  she  was  goin' 


142  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

to  sleep,  and  jest  made  the  best  o'  my  way  out.  Ugh!  don't 
she  scold  when  there  's  anybody  sick?  " 

Gertrude  sauntered  out  into  the  garden.  She  had  nothing 
to  do  but  think  anxiously  about  Emily,  who  she  feared  was 
very  ill.  Her  work  and  her  books  were  all  in  Emily's  room, 
where  they  were  usually  kept ;  the  library  might  have  furnished 
amusement,  but  it  was  locked  up.  So  the  garden  was  the  only 
thing  left  for  her,  and  there  she  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning; 
and  not  that  morning  only,  but  many  others ;  for  Emily  contin 
ued  to  grow  worse,  and  a  fortnight  passed  away  without  Ger 
trude's  seeing  her  or  having  any  other  intimation  regarding  her 
health  than  Mrs.  Ellis 's  occasional  report  to  Mr.  Graham,  who, 
however,  as  he  saw  the  physican  every  day,  and  made  frequent 
visits  to  his  daughter  himself,  did  not  require  that  particular 
information  which  Gertrude  was  eager  to  obtain.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  ventured  to  question  Mrs.  Ellis,  whose  only  re 
ply  was,  "Don't  bother  me  with  questions!  what  do  you  know 
about  sickness  1  " 

One  afternoon  Gertrude  was  sitting  in  a  large  summer-house 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  garden;  her  own  piece  of  ground,  fra 
grant  with  mignonette  and  verbena,  was  close  by,  and  she  was 
busily  engaged  in  tying  up  and  marking  some  little  papers  of 
seeds,  the  gleanings  from  various  seed  vessels,  when  she  was 
startled  by  hearing  a  step  close  beside  her,  and  looking  up,  saw 
Dr.  Jeremy,  the  family  physician,  just  entering  the  building. 

"Ah!  what  are  you  doing?"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  in  a 
quick,  abrupt  manner  peculiar  to  him.  "  Sorting  seeds,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Gerty,  looking  up  and  blushing,  as  she 
saw  the  doctor's  keen  black  eyes  scrutinizing  her  face. 

"Where  have  I  seen  you  before?"  asked  he,  in  the  same 
blunt  way. 

"At  Mr.  Flint's." 

"Ah!  True  Flint's!  I  remember  all  about  it.  You're  his 
girl!  Nice  girl,  too.  And  poor  True,  he's  dead!  Well, 
he 's  a  loss  to  the  community!  So  this  is  the  little  nurse  I 
used  to  see  there.  Bless  me !  how  children  do  grow !  " 

"Doctor  Jeremy,"  asked  Gertrude,  in  an  earnest  voice,  "will 
you  please  to  tell  me  how  Miss  Emily  is  ? " 

"Emily  !  she  ain't  very  well  just  now." 

"Do  you  think  she 'if die?" 

"Die!     No!     What  should  she  die  for?     I  won't  let  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  143 

die,  if  you  '11  help  me  keep  her  alive.  Why  ain't  you  in  the 
house,  taking  care  of  her !  " 

"I  wish  I  might!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  starting  up;  "I 
wish  I  might !  " 

"What's  to  hinder?" 

"Mrs.  Ellis,  sir,  she  won't  let  me  in;  she  says  Miss  Emily 
doesn't  want  anybody  but  her." 

"She's  nothing  to  say  about  it,  or  Emily  either;  it's  my 
business,  and  I  want  you.  I  'd  rather  have  you  to  take  care 
of  my  patients  than  all  the  Mrs.  Ellises  in  the  world.  She 
doesn't  know  anything  about  nursing;  let  her  stick  to  her 
cranberry  sauce  and  squash  pies.  So  mind,  to-morrow  you  're 
to  begin." 

"0,  thank  you,  doctor!" 

"Don't  thank  me  yet;  wait  till  you  've  tried  it,  — it 's  hard 
work  taking  care  of  sick  folks.  Whose  orchard  is  that  1 " 

"Mrs.  Bruce's." 

"  Is  that  her  pear  tree  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"By  George,  Mrs.  Bruce,  I  '11  try  your  pears  for  you!  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  doctor,  a  man  some  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
stout  and  active,  sprung  over  a  stone  wall  which  separated 
them  from  the  orchard,  and  carried  along  by  the  impetus  the 
leap  had  given  him,  reached  the  foot  of  the  tree  almost  at  a 
bound. 

As  Gertrude,  full  of  mirth,  watched  the  proceeding,  she  ob 
served  the  doctor  stumble  over  some  obstacle,  and  only  save 
himself  from  falling  by  stretching  forth  both  hands,  and  sus 
taining  himself  against  the  huge  trunk  of  the  fine  old  tree. 
At  the  same  instant  a  head,  adorned  with  a  velvet  smoking- 
cap,  was  slowly  lifted  from  the  long  grass,  and  a  youth,  about 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age,  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow 
and  stared  at  the  unlooked-for  intruder. 

Nothing  daunted,  the  doctor  at  once  took  offensive  ground 
towards  the  occupant  of  the  place,  saying,  "  Get  up,  lazy  bones ! 
What  do  you  lie  there  for,  tripping  up  honest  folks  ? " 

"Who  do  you  call  honest  folks,  sir?"  inquired  the  youth, 
apparently  quite  undisturbed  by  the  doctor's  epithet  and  in 
quiry. 

"I  call  myself  and  my  little  friend  here  remarkably  honest 
people,"  replied  the  doctor,  winking  at  Gertrude,  who,  stand- 


144  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ing  behind  the  wall  and  looking  over,  was  laughing  heartily  at 
the  way  in  which  the  doctor  had  got  caught. 

The  young  man,  observing  the  direction  of  the  latter's  eyes, 
turned  and  gave  a  broad  stare  at  Gertrude's  merry  face. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir? "  asked  he. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  replied  the  doctor.  "I  came  here  to  help 
myself  to  pears ;  but  you  are  taller  than  I,  —  perhaps  with  the 
help  of  that  crooked  handled  cane  of  yours  you  can  reach  that 
best  branch." 

"  A  remarkably  honorable  and  honest  errand !  "  muttered  the 
young  man.  "I  shall  be  happy  to  be  engaged  in  so  good  a 
cause. " 

As  he  spoke  he  lifted  his  cane,  which  lay  by  his  side,  and 
drawing  down  the  end  of  the  branch  so  that  he  could  reach  it 
with  his  hand,  shook  it  vigorously.  The  ripe  fruit  fell  on 
every  side,  and  the  doctor,  having  rilled  his  pockets  and  both 
his  hands,  started  for  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Have  you  got  enough  1 "  asked  the  youth,  in  a  very  lazy 
tone  of  voice. 

"Plenty,  plenty,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Glad  of  it,"  said  the  boy,  indolently  throwing  himself  on 
the  grass,  and  still  staring  at  Gertrude. 

"You  must  be  very  tired,"  said  the  doctor,  stepping  back  a 
pace  or  two;  "I  'm  a  physician,  and  should  advise  a  nap." 

"Are  you,  indeed!"  replied  the  youth,  in  the  same  half- 
drawling,  half-ironical  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  previously 
spoken;  "then  I  think  I  '11  take  your  advice; "  saying  which  he 
threw  himself  back  upon  the  grass  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Having  emptied  his  pockets  upon .  the  seat  of  the  summer- 
house,  and  invited  Gertrude  to  partake,  the  doctor,  still  laugh 
ing  so  immoderately  at  his  boyish  feat  that  he  could  scarcely 
eat  the  fruit,  happened  to  bethink  himself  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Half- past  four!  The 
cars  go  in  ten  minutes.  Who  's  going  to  drive  me  down  to  the 
depot?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  Gertrude,  to  whom  the  ques 
tion  seemed  to  be  addressed. 

"Where's  George?" 

"He  's  gone  to  the  meadow  to  get  in  some  hay,  but  he  left 
white  Charlie  harnessed  in  the  yard;  I  saw  him  fasten  him  to 
the  chain  after  he  drove  you  up  from  the  cars." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  145 

"Ah!  then  you  can  drive  me  down  to  the  depot." 

"I  can't,  sir;  I  don't  know  how." 

"But  you  must;  I  '11  show  you  how.     You  're  not  afraid!  n 

"0  no,  sir;  but  Mr.  Graham  — " 

"Never  you  mind  Mr.  Graham  —  do  you  mind  me.  I'll 
answer  for  your  coming  back  safe  enough." 

Gertrude  was  naturally  courageous;  she  had  never  driven 
before,  but  having  no  fears,  she  succeeded  admirably,  and  being 
often  afterwards  called  upon  by  Dr.  Jeremy  to  perform  the 
same  service,  she  soon  became  skilful  in  the  use  of  the  reins, 
—  an  accomplishment  not  always  particularly  desirable  in  a 
lady,  but  which  in  her  case  proved  very  useful. 

Dr.  Jeremy  was  true  to  his  promise  of  installing  Gertrude 
in  Emily's  sick-room.  The  very  next  visit  he  made  to  his 
patient  he  spoke  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise  of  Gertrude's 
devotion  to  her  old  uncle,  and  her  capability  as  a  nurse,  and 
asked  why  she  had  been  expelled  from  the  chamber. 

"She  is  timid,"  said  Emily,  "and  is  afraid  of  catching  the 
fever." 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy;  "'t ain't  like  her." 

"Do  you  think  not?"  inquired  Emily  earnestly.  "Mrs. 
Ellis  —  " 

"Told  a  lie,"  interrupted  the  doctor.  "Gerty  wants  to  come 
and  take  care  of  you,  and  she  knows  how  as  well  as  Mrs.  Ellis 
any  day;  it  isn't  much  you  need  done.  You  want  quiet,  and 
that 's  what  you  can't  have  with  that  great  talking  woman 
about.  So  I  '11  send  her  to  Jericho  to-day,  and  bring  my  little 
Gertrude  up  here.  She  's  a  quiet  little  mouse,  and  has  got  a 
head  on  her  shoulders." 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Gertrude  could  provide  for 
Emily's  wants  any  better  or  even  as  well  as  Mrs.  Ellis;  and 
Emily  knowing  this  took  care  that  the  housekeeper  should  not 
be  sent  to  Jericho;  for  though  Dr.  Jeremy,  a  man  of  strong 
prejudices,  did  not  like  her,  she  was  excellent  in  her  depart 
ment,  and  could  not  be  dispensed  with.  Had  it  been  other 
wise,  Emily  would  not  have  hurt  her  feelings  by  letting  her  see 
that  she  was  in  any  degree  superseded. 

So  though  Emily,  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  Gertrude  were  all  made 
happy  by  the  free  admission  of  the  latter  to  the  sick-room,  the 
housekeeper,  unhandsomely  as  she  had  behaved,  was  never  con 
scious  that  any  one  knew  the  wrong  she  had  done  to  Gertrude 


146  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

in  keeping  her  out  of  sight  and  giving  a  false  reason  for  her 
continued  absence. 

There  was  a  watchfulness,  a  care,  a  tenderness  in  Gertrude, 
which  only  the  warmest  love  could  have  dictated. 

When  Emily  awoke  at  night  from  a  troubled  sleep,  found  a 
cooling  draught  ready  at  her  lips,  and  knew  from  Mrs.  Ellis's 
deep  snoring  that  it  was  not  her  hand  that  held  it,  —  when  she 
observed  that  all  day  long  no  troublesome  fly  was  ever  permit 
ted  to  approach  her  pillow,  her  aching  head  was  relieved  by 
hours  of  patient  bathing,  and  the  little  feet  that  were  never 
weary  were  always  noiseless,  —  she  realized  the  truth,  that  Dr. 
Jeremy  had  brought  her  a  most  excellent  medicine. 

A  week  or  two  passed  away,  and  she  was  well  enough  to  sit 
up  nearly  all  the  time,  though  not  yet  able  to  leave  her  room. 
A  few  weeks  more  and  the  doctor  began  to  insist  upon  air  and 
exercise.  "Drive  out  two  or  three  times  every  day,"  said  he. 

"How  can  I?"  said  Emily.  "George  has  so  much  to  do 
it  will  be  very  inconvenient." 

"Let  Gertrude  drive  you  ;  she  is  a  capital  hand." 

"Gertrude,"  said  Emily  smiling,  "I  believe  you  are  a  great 
favorite  of  the  doctor's;  he  thinks  you  can  do  anything.  You 
never  drove  in  your  life,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Has  n't  she  driven  me  to  the  depot  every  day  for  these  six 
weeks  1 "  inquired  the  doctor. 

"  Is  it  possible  1 "  asked  Emily,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  the 
idea  of  a  lady's  attempting  the  management  of  a  horse. 

Upon  her  being  assured  this  was  the  case,  and  the  doctor 
insisting  that  there  was  no  danger,  Charlie  was  harnessed  into 
the  carryall,  and  Emily  and  Mrs.  Ellis  went  out  to  drive  with 
Gertrude;  an  experiment  which,  being  often  repeated,  was  a 
source  of  health  to  the  invalid,  and  pleasure  to  them  all.  In 
the  early  autumn,  when  Emily's  health  was  quite  restored,  old 
Charlie  was  daily  called  into  requisition;  sometimes  Mrs.  Ellis 
accompanied  them,  but  as  she  was  often  engaged  about  house 
hold  duties,  they  usually  went  by  themselves  in  a  large,  old- 
fashioned  buggy,  and  Emily  declared  that  Gertrude's  learning 
to  drive  had  proved  one  of  the  greatest  sources  of  happiness 
she  had  known  for  years. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  the  summer  and  autumn,  Ger 
trude  saw  again  the  lazy  youth  whom  Dr.  Jeremy  had  stumbled 
over  when  he  went  to  steal  pears. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  147 

Once  he  came  and  sat  on  the  wall  while  she  was  at  work  in 
her  garden,  professed  himself  astonished  at  her  activity,  talked 
a  little  with  her  about  her  flowers,  asked  some  questions  con 
cerning  her  friend  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  ended  by  requesting  to 
know  her  name. 

Gertrude  blushed ;  she  was  a  little  sensitive  about  her  name, 
and  though  she  always  went  by  that  of  Flint,  and  did  not,  on 
ordinary  occasions,  think  much  about  it,  she  could  not  fail  to 
remember,  when  the  question  was  put  to  her  point  blank,  that 
she  had,  in  reality,  no  surname  of  her  own. 

Emily  had  endeavored  to  find  Nan  Grant,  in  order  to  learn 
from  her  something  of  Gertrude's  early  history;  but  Nan  had 
left  her  old  habitation,  and  for  years  nothing  had  been  heard 
of  her. 

Gertrude,  as  we  have  said,  blushed  on  being  asked  her  name, 
but  replied,  with  dignity,  that  she  would  tell  hers,  provided 
her  new  acquaintance  would  return  the  compliment. 

"Sha'n't  do  it!"  said  the  youth  impudently,  "and  don't 
care  about  knowing  yours,  either;"  saying  which,  he  kicked 
an  apple  with  his  foot,  and  walked  off,  still  kicking  it  before 
him,  leaving  Gertrude  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  the  most 
>ll-bred  person  she  had  ever  seen. 


148  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTEK   XX 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command, 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright, 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

WORDSWORTH. 

IT  was  the  twilight  of  a  sultry  September  day,  and,  wearied 
with  many  hours'  endurance  of  an  excessive  heat,  unlocked  for 
so  late  in  the  season,  Emily  Graham  sat  on  the  front  piazza  of 
her  father's  house,  inhaling  a  delicious  and  refreshing  breeze, 
which  had  just  sprung  up.  The  western  sky  was  still  streaked 
with  brilliant  lines  of  red,  the  lingering  effects  of  a  gorgeous 
sunset,  while  the  moon,  now  nearly  at  the  full,  and  triumphing 
in  the  close  of  day  and  the  commencement  of  her  nightly  reign, 
cast  her  full  beams  upon  Emily's  white  dress,  and  gave  to  the 
beautiful  hand  and  arm,  which,  escaping  from  the  draperied 
sleeve,  rested  on  the  side  of  her  rustic  arm-chair,  the  semblance 
of  polished  marble. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  Emily  was  first  introduced  to  the 
reader;  and  yet  so  slight  were  the  changes  wrought  by  time 
upon  her  face  and  figure,  that  she  looked  scarcely  any  older  than 
on  the  occasion  of  her  first  meeting  Gertrude  in  Mr.  Arnold's 
church. 

She  had  even  then  experienced  much  of  the  sorrow  of  life, 
and  learned  how  to  distil  from  the  bitter  dregs  of  suffering  a 
balm  for  every  pain.  Even  then,  that  experience,  and  the 
blessed  knowledge  she  had  gained  from  it,  had  both  stamped 
themselves  upon  her  countenance :  the  one  in  a  sobered  and  sub 
dued  expression,  which  usually  belongs  to  more  mature  years; 
the  other,  in  that  sweet,  calm  smile  of  trust  and  hope,  which 
proclaims  the  votary  of  Heaven. 

Therefore  time  had  little  power  upon  her,  and  as  she  was 
then  so  was  she  now;  lovely  in  her  outward  appearance,  and 
still  more  lovely  in  her  heart  and  life.  A  close  observer  might, 
however,  perceive  in  her  a  greater  degree  of  buoyancy  of  spirit, 
keenness  of  interest  in  what  was  going  on  about  her,  and  evi- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  149 

dent  enjoyment  of  life,  than  she  had  formerly  evinced;  and 
this  was  due,  as  Emily  felt  and  acknowledged,  to  her  recent 
close  companionship  with  one  to  whom  she  was  bound  by  the 
warmest  affection,  and  who  by  her  lively  sympathy,  her  con 
stant  devotion,  her  natural  appreciation  of  the  entertaining  and 
the  ludicrous,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  and  her  ear 
nest  and  unsparing  efforts  to  bring  her  much  loved  friend  into 
communion  with  everything  she  herself  enjoyed,  had  called  into 
play  faculties  which  blindness  had  rendered  almost  dormant,  and 
become  what  Uncle  True  bade  her  be,  eyes  to  her  benefactor. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  as  Emily  sat  alone,  shut 
out  from  the  beautiful  sunset,  and  unconscious  of  the  shadows 
that  played  over  her  in  the  moonlight,  her  thoughts  seemed  to 
be  sad.  She  held  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  in  a  listening 
attitude,  and  as  often  as  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  gate  swing 
ing  in  the  breeze,  she  would  start,  while  a  look  of  anxiety,  and 
even  pain,  would  cross  her  features. 

At  length,  some  one  emerges  from  behind  the  high  fence 
which  screens  the  garden  from  public  gaze,  and  approaches  the 
gate.  None  but  Emily's  quick  ear  could  have  distinguished 
the  light  step ;  but  she  hears  it  at  once,  and  rising,  goes  to  meet 
the  newcomer,  whom  we  must  pause  to  introduce,  for  though  an 
old  acquaintance,  time  has  not  left  her  unchanged,  and  it  would 
be  hard  to  recognize  in  her  our  little  quondam  Gertrude. 

The  present  Gertrude  —  for  she  it  is  —  has  now  become  a 
young  lady.  She  is  some  inches  taller  than  Emily,  and  her 
figure  is  slight  and  delicate.  Her  complexion  is  dark  but 
clear,  and  rendered  brilliant  by  the  rosy  hue  that  flushes  her 
cheeks;  but  that  may  be  the  effect  of  her  rapid  walk  from  the 
railroad  station.  She  has  taken  off  her  bonnet,  and  is  swing 
ing  it  by  the  string,  —  a  habit  she  always  had  as  a  child ;  so 
we  will  acquit  her  of  any  coquettish  desire  to  display  an  un 
usually  fine  head  of  hair. 

Gertrude' s  eyes  have  retained  their  old  lustre,  and  do  not  now 
look  too  large  for  her  face ;  and  if  her  mouth  be  less  classically 
formed  than  the  strict  rule  of  beauty  would  commend,  one  can 
easily  forgive  that,  in  consideration  of  two  rows  of  small  pearly 
teeth  which  are  as  regular  and  even  as  a  string  of  beads.  Her 
neat  dress  of  spotted  muslin  fits  close  to  her  throat,  and  her  simple 
black  mantle  does  not  conceal  the  roundness  of  her  taper  waist. 

What  then  1     Is  Gertrude  a  beauty  1 


150  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

By  no  means.  Hers  is  a  face  and  form  about  which  there 
would  be  a  thousand  different  opinions,  and  out  of  the  whole 
number  few  would  pronounce  her  beautiful.  But  there  are 
faces  whose  ever- varying  expression  one  loves  to  watch,  —  tell 
tale  faces,  that  speak  the  truth  and  proclaim  the  sentiment 
within;  faces  that  now  light  up  with  intelligence,  now  beam 
with  mirth,  now  sadden  at  the  tale  of  sorrow,  now  burn  with 
a  holy  indignation  for  that  which  the  soul  abhors,  and  now, 
again,  are  sanctified  by  the  divine  presence,  when  the  heart 
turns  away  from  the  world  and  itself,  and  looks  upward  in  the 
spirit  of  devotion.  Such  a  face  was  Gertrude's. 

There  are  forms,  too,  which,  though  neither  dignified,  queenly, 
or  fairy-like,  possess  a  grace,  an  ease,  a  self-possession,  a  power 
of  moving  lightly  and  airily  in  their  sphere,  and  never  being  in 
any  one's  way,  — and  such  a  form  was  Gertrude's. 

Whatever  charm  these  attractions  might  give  her,  —  and 
there  were  those  who  estimated  it  highly,  —  it  was  undoubt 
edly  greatly  enchanced  by  an  utter  unconsciousness,  on  her 
part,  of  possessing  any  attractions  at  all.  The  early  engrafted 
belief  in  her  own  personal  plainness  had  not  yet  deserted  her, 
but  she  no  longer  felt  the  mortification  she  had  formerly  labored 
under  on  that  account. 

As  she  perceived  Miss  Graham  coming  to  meet  her,  she 
quickened  her  pace,  and  joining  her  near  the  doorstep,  where 
a  path  turning  to  the  right  led  into  the  garden,  passed  her  arm 
affectionately  over  Emily's  shoulder,  in  a  manner  which  the 
latter's  blindness,  and  Gertrude's  superior  height  and  ability 
to  act  as  guide,  had  of  late  rendered  usual,  and  turning  into 
the  walk  which  led  from  the  house,  said,  while  she  drew  the 
shawl  closer  around  her  blind  friend,  — 

"  Here  I  am  again,  Emily !  Have  you  been  alone  ever  since 
I  went  away  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear,  most  of  the  time,  and  have  been  quite  worried 
to  think  you  were  travelling  about  in  Boston  this  excessively 
warm  day." 

"It  has  not  hurt  me  in  the  least;  I  only  enjoy  this  cool 
breeze  all  the  more ;  it  is  such  a  contrast  to  the  heat  and  dust 
of  the  city !  " 

"But,  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  stopping  short  in  their  walk, 
"what  are  you  coming  away  from  the  house  for?  You  have 
not  been  to  tea,  my  child. " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  151 

"I  know  it,  Emily,  but  I  don't  want  any  supper." 

They  walked  on  for  some  time,  slowly  and  in  perfect  silence. 
At  last  Emily  said,  — 

"  Well,  Gertrude,  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  a  great  deal,  but  —  " 

"But  you  know  it  will  be  sad  news  to  me,  and  so  you  don't 
like  to  speak  it ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"I  ought  not  to  have  the  vanity,  dear  Emily,  to  think  it 
would  trouble  you  very  much;  but  ever  since  last  evening, 
when  I  told  you  what  Mr.  W.  said,  and  what  I  had  in  my 
mind,  and  you  seemed  to  feel  so  badly  at  the  thought  of  our 
being  separated,  I  have  felt  almost  doubtful  what  it  was  right 
for  me  to  do." 

"And  I,  on  the  other  hand,  Gertrude,  have  been  reproach 
ing  myself  for  allowing  you  to  have  any  knowledge  of  my  feel 
ing  in  the  matter,  lest  I  should  be  influencing  you  against  your 
duty,  or,  at  least,  making  it  harder  for  you  to  fulfil.  I  feel 
that  you  are  right,  Gertrude,  and  that,  instead  of  opposing,  I 
ought  to  do  everything  I  can  to  forward  your  plans." 

"Dear  Emily!"  exclaimed  Gertrude  vehemently,  "if  you 
thought  so  from  what  I  told  you  yesterday,  you  would  be  con 
vinced,  had  you  seen  and  heard  all  that  I  have  to-day." 

"  Why  ?  are  matters  any  worse  than  they  were  at  Mrs.  Sul 
livan's?" 

"Much  worse  than  I  described  to  you.  I  did  not  then  know 
myself  all  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  to  contend  with ;  but  I  have 
been  at  their  house  nearly  all  the  time  since  I  left  home  this 
morning  (for  Mr.  W.  did  not  detain  me  five  minutes),  and  it 
really  does  not  seem  to  me  safe  for  such  a  timid,  delicate  woman 
as  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  be  alone  with  Mr.  Cooper,  now  that  his 
mind  is  in  such  a  dreadful  state." 

"But  do  you  think  you  can  do  any  good,  Gertrude? " 

"  I  know  I  can,  dear  Emily ;  I  can  manage  him  much  better 
than  she  can,  and  at  the  same  time  do  more  for  his  comfort  and 
happiness.  He  is  like  a  child  now,  and  full  of  whims.  When 
he  can  possibly  be  indulged,  Mrs.  Sullivan  will  please  him  at 
any  amount  of  inconvenience,  and  even  danger  to  herself;  not 
only  because  he  is  her  father,  and  she  feels  it  her  duty,  but  I 
actually  think  she  is  afraid  of  him,  he  is  so  irritable  and  vio 
lent.  She  tells  me  he  often  takes  it  into  his  head  to  do  the 
strangest  things,  such  as  going  out  late  at  night^  whejv  it  would 


152  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

be  perfectly  unsafe;  and  sleeping  with  his  window  wide  open, 
though  his  room  is  on  the  lower  floor." 

"Poor  woman!"  exclaimed  Emily;  "what  does  she  do  in 
such  cases  ? " 

"I  can  tell  you,  Emily,  for  I  saw  an  instance  of  it  to-day. 
When  I  first  went  in  this  morning,  he  was  preparing  to  make 
a  coal-fire  in  the  grate,  notwithstanding  the  heat,  which  was 
becoming  intense  in  the  city." 

"And  Mrs.  Sullivan?"  said  Emily. 

"Was  sitting  on  the  lower  stair,  in  the  front  entry,  crying." 

"  Poor  thing !  "  murmured  Emily. 

"She  could  do  nothing  with  him,"  continued  Gertrude,  "and 
had  given  up  in  despair." 

"  She  ought  to  have  a  strong  woman,  or  a  man,  to  take  care 
of  him." 

"That  is  what  she  dreads  more  than  anything.  She  says 
it  would  kill  her  to  see  him  unkindly  treated,  as  he  would  be 
sure  to  be  by  a  stranger ;  and  besides,  I  can  see  that  she  shrinks 
from  the  idea  of  having  any  one  in  the  house  to  whom  she  is 
unaccustomed.  She  is  exceedingly  neat  and  particular  in  all 
her  arrangements,  has  always  done  her  work  herself,  and  de 
clares  she  would  sooner  admit  a  wild  beast  into  her  family  than 
an  Irish  girl." 

"Her  new  house  has  not  been  a  source  of  much  pleasure  to 
her  yet,  has  it  1 " 

"0,  no.  She  was  saying  to-day  how  strange  it  seemed, 
when  she  had  been  looking  forward  so  long  to  the  comfort  of 
a  new  and  well-built  tenement,  that,  just  as  she  had  moved  in 
and  got  everything  furnished  to  her  mind,  she  should  have 
this  great  trial  come  upon  her." 

"It  seems  strange  to  me,"  said  Emily,  "that  she  did  not 
sooner  perceive  its  approach.  I  noticed,  when  I  went  witli 

you  to  the  house  in  E— Street,  the  failure  in  the  old  man's 

intellect." 

"I  had  observed  it  for  a  long  time,"  remarked  Gertrude, 
"but  never  spoke  of  it  to  her;  and  I  do  not  think  she  was  in 
the  least  aware  of  it,  until  about  the  time  of  their  removal, 
when  the  breaking  up  of  old  associations  had  a  sad  effect  upon 
poor  Mr.  Cooper." 

"Don't  you  think,  Gertrude,  that  the  pulling  down  of  the 
church,  and  his  consequent  loss  of  employment,  were  a  great 
injury  to  his  mind  ?  " 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  153 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  am  sure  of  it;  he  altered  very  much  after 
that,  and  never  seemed  so  happy,  even  while  they  were  in  the 
house  in  E Street;  and  when  the  owners  of  that  land  con 
cluded  to  take  it  for  stores  and  warehouses,  and  gave  Mrs.  Sul 
livan  notice  that  she  would  be  obliged  to  leave,  the  old  sex 
ton's  mind  gave  way  entirely." 

"  Sad  thing !  »  said  Emily.      "  How  old  is  he,  Gertrude  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  believe  he  is  very  old;  I  re 
member  Mrs.  Sullivan's  telling  me,  some  time  ago,  that  he  was 
near  eighty." 

"Is  he  so  old  as  that?  Then  I  am  not  surprised  that  these 
changes  have  made  him  childish." 

"  0,  no.  Melancholy  as  it  is,  it  is  no  more  than  we  may 
any  of  us  come  to,  if  we  live  to  his  age;  and  as  he  seems  for 
the  most  part  full  as  contented  and  happy  as  I  have  ever  seen 
him  appear,  I  do  not  lament  it  so  much  on  his  own  account  as 
on  Mrs.  Sullivan's.  But  I  do,  Emily,  feel  dreadfully  anxious 
about  her." 

11  Does  it  seem  to  be  so  very  hard  for  her  to  bear  up  under 
it?" 

"I  think  it  would  not  be,  if  she  were  well;  but  there  is 
something  the  matter  with  her,  and  I  fear  it  is  more  serious 
than  she  allows,  for  she  looks  very  pale,  and  has,  I  know,  had 
several  alarming  ill  turns  lately." 

"Has  she  consulted  a  physician? " 

"No;  she  doesn't  wish  for  one,  and  insists  upon  it  she  shall 
soon  be  better;  but  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  she  will,  especially 
as  she  takes  no  care  of  herself;  and  that  is  one  great  reason  for 
my  wishing  to  be  in  town  as  soon  as  possible.  I  am  anxious 
to  have  Dr.  Jeremy  see  her,  and  I  think  I  can  bring  it  about 
without  her  knowing  that  he  comes  on  her  account.  I  '11  have 
a  severe  cold  myself,  if  I  can't  manage  it  in  any  other  way." 

"You  speak  confidently  of  being  in  town,  Gertrude;  so  I 
suppose  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  0,  I  have  not  told  you,  have  I,  about  my  visit  to  Mr.  W.  ? 
Dear,  good  man,  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  to  him !  He  has 
promised  me  the  situation." 

"I  had  no  doubt  he  would,  from  what  you  told  me  he  said 
to  you  at  Mrs.  Bruce's." 

"You  hadn't,  really!  Why,  Emily,  I  was  almost  afraid  to 
mention  it  to  him.  I  couldn't  believe  he  would  have  sufficient 


154  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

confidence  in  me ;  but  he  was  so  kind !  I  hardly  dare  tell  yon 
what  he  said  about  my  capacity  to  teach,  you  will  think  me  so 
vain." 

"You  need  not  tell  me,  my  darling;  I  know,  from  his  own 
lips,  how  highly  he  appreciates  your  ability ;  you  could  not  tell 
me  anything  so  flattering  as  what  he  told  me  himself." 

"Dear  Uncle  True  always  wanted  me  to  be  a  teacher;  it 
was  the  height  of  his  ambition.  He  would  be  pleased,  would  n't 
he,  dear  Emily  1 " 

"He  would  no  doubt  have  been  proud  enough  to  see  you  as 
sistant  in  a  school  like  Mr.  W. 's.  I  am  not  sure,  however, 
but  he  would  think,  as  I  do,  that  you  are  undertaking  too  much. 
You  expect  to  be  occupied  in  the  school  the  greater  part  of 
every  morning,  and  yet  you  propose  to  establish  yourself  as 
nurse  to  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  guardian  to  her  poor  old  father. 
My  dear  child,  you  are  not  used  to  so  much  care,  and  I  shall 
be  constantly  troubled  for  you,  lest  your  own  health  and 
strength  give  way." 

"  0,  dear  Emily,  there  is  no  occasion  for  any  anxiety  on  my 
account;  I  am  well  and  strong,  and  fully  capable  of  all  that  I 
have  planned  for  myself.  My  only  dread  is  in  the  thought  of 
leaving  you ;  and  the  only  fear  I  have  is  that  you  will  miss  me, 
and  perhaps  feel  as  if  —  " 

"I  know  what  you  would  say,  Gertrude.  You  need  not  fear 
that;  I  am  sure  of  your  affection.  I  am  confident  you  love  me 
next  to  your  duty,  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  that  you 
should  give  me  the  preference.  So  dismiss  that  thought  from 
your  mind,  and  do  not  carry  with  you  the  belief  that  I  would 
be  selfish  enough  to  desire  to  retain  you  a  moment.  I  only 
wish,  my  dear,  that  for  the  present  you  had  not  thought  of  en 
tering  the  school.  You  might  then  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Sulli 
van's,  stayed  as  long  as  you  were  needed,  and  perhaps  found,  by 
the  time  we  are  ready  to  start  on  our  southern  tour,  that  your 
services  could  be  quite  dispensed  with;  in  which  case  you  could 
accompany  us  on  a  journey  which  I  am  sure  your  health  will  by 
that  time  require." 

"But,  dear  Emily,  how  could  I  do  that?  I  could  not  pro 
pose  myself  as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Sullivan,  however  useful  I 
might  intend  to  be  to  her;  nor  could  I  speak  of  nursing  to  a 
woman  who  will  not  acknowledge  that  she  is  ill.  I  thought 
of  all  that,  and  it  seemed  to  me  impossible,  with  all  the  deli- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  155 

cacy  and  tact  in  the  world,  to  bring  it  about;  for  I  have  been 
with  you  so  long  that  Mrs.  Sullivan,  I  have  no  doubt,  thinks 
me  entirely  unfitted  for  her  primitive  way  of  life.  It  was  only 
when  Mr.  W.  spoke  of  his  wanting  an  assistant,  and,  as  I  im 
agined,  hinted  that  he  should  like  to  employ  me  in  that  capa 
city,  that  the  present  plan  occurred  to  me.  I  knew  if  I  told 
Mrs.  Sullivan  that  I  was  engaged  to  teach  there,  and  that  you 
were  not  coming  to  town  at  all,  but  were  soon  going  south,  and 
represented  to  her  that  I  wanted  a  boarding- place  for  the  win 
ter,  she  would  not  only  be  loath  to  refuse  me  a  home  with  her, 
but  would  insist  that  I  should  go  nowhere  else." 

"  And  it  proved  as  you  expected? " 

"Exactly;  and  she  showed  so  much  pleasure  at  the  thought 
of  my  being  with  her,  that  I  realized  still  more  how  much  she 
needed  some  one." 

"She  will  have  a  treasure  in  you,  Gertrude;  I  know  that 
very  well." 

"No,  indeed!  I  do  not  hope  to  be  of  much  use.  The  feel 
ing  I  have  is,  that  however  little  I  may  be  able  to  accomplish, 
it  will  be  more  than  any  one  else  could  do  for  Mrs.  Sullivan. 
She  has  lived  so  retired  that  she  has  not  an  intimate  friend  in 
the  city,  and  I  do  not  really  know  of  any  one,  except  myself, 
whom  she  would  willingly  admit  under  her  roof.  She  is  used 
to  me  and  loves  me ;  I  am  no  restraint  upon  her,  and  she  allows 
me  to  assist  in  whatever  she  is  doing,  although  she  often  says 
that  I  live  a  lady's  life  now,  and  am  not  used  to  work.  She 
knows,  too,  that  I  have  an  influence  over  her  father;  and  I 
have,  —  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  —  I  have  more  than  I 
know  how  to  account  for  myself.  I  think  it  is  partly  because 
I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  him,  and  am  firm  in  opposing  his  un 
reasonable  fancies,  and  partly  because  I  am  more  of  a  stranger 
than  Mrs.  Sullivan.  But  there  is  still  another  thing  which 
gives  me  a  great  control  over  him.  He  naturally  associates  me 
in  his  mind  with  Willie ;  for  we  were  for  some  years  constantly 
together,  both  left  the  house  at  the  same  time,  and  he  knows, 
too,  that  it  is  through  me  that  the  correspondence  with  him  is 
chiefly  carried  on.  Since  his  mind  has  been  so  weak,  he  seems 
to  think  continually  of  Willie,  and  I  can  at  any  moment,  how 
ever  irritable  or  wilful  he  may  be,  make  him  calm  and  quiet 
by  proposing  to  tell  him  the  latest  news  from  his  grandson.  It 
does  not  matter  how  often  I  repeat  the  contents  of  the  last 


156  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

letter,  it  is  always  new  to  him ;  and  you  have  no  idea,  Emily, 
what  power  this  little  circumstance  gives  me.  Mrs.  Sullivan 
sees  how  easily  I  can  guide  his  thoughts,  and  I  noticed  what  a 
load  of  care  seemed  to  be  taken  from  her  mind  by  merely  hav 
ing  me  there  to-day.  She  looked  so  happy  when  I  came  away 
to-night,  and  spoke  so  hopefully  of  the  comfort  it  would  be 
during  the  winter  to  have  me  with  her,  that  I  felt  repaid  for 
any  sacrifice  it  has  been  to  me.  But  when  I  came  home,  and 
saw  you,  and  thought  of  your  going  so  far  away,  and  of  the 
length  of  time  it  might  be  before  I  should  live  with  you  again, 
I  felt  as  if  —  "  Gertrude  could  say  no  more.  She  laid  her 
head  on  Emily's  shoulder  and  wept. 

Emily  soothed  her  with  the  greatest  tenderness.  "We  have 
been  very  happy  together,  Gerty,"  said  she,  "and  I  shall  miss 
you  sadly;  half  the  enjoyment  of  my  life  has  of  late  years  been 
borrowed  from  you.  But  I  never  loved  you  half  so  well  as  I 
do  now,  at  the  very  time  that  we  must  part ;  for  I  see  in  the 
sacrifice  you  are  making  of  yourself  one  of  the  noblest  and  most 
important  traits  of  character  a  woman  can  possess.  I  know  how 
much  you  love  the  Sullivans,  and  you  have  certainly  every  rea 
son  for  being  attached  to  them,  and  desiring  to  repay  your  old 
obligations ;  but  your  leaving  us  at  this  time,  and  renouncing 
without  a  murmur  the  southern  tour,  from  which  you  expected 
so  much  pleasure,  proves  that  my  Gerty  is  the  brave,  good  girl 
I  always  hoped  and  prayed  she  might  become.  You  are  in  the 
path  of  duty,  Gertrude,  and  will  be  rewarded  by  the  approba 
tion  of  your  own  conscience,  if  in  no  other  way." 

As  Emily  finished  speaking,  they  reached  a  corner  of  the 
garden,  and  were  here  met  by  a  servant  girl,  who  had  been 
looking  for  them  to  announce  that  Mrs.  Bruce  and  her  son  were 
in  the  parlor,  and  had  asked  for  them  both. 

"  Did  you  get  her  buttons  in  town,  Gertrude  1 "  inquired 
Emily. 

"  Yes,  I  found  some  that  were  an  excellent  match  for  the 
dress;  she  probably  wants  to  know  what  success  I  had;  but 
how  can  I  go  in  ?  " 

"I  will  return  to  the  house  with  Katy,  and  you  can  go  in  at 
the  side  door,  and  reach  your  own  room  without  being  seen. 
I  will  excuse  you  to  Mrs.  Bruce  for  the  present;  and  when 
you  have  bathed  your  eyes,  and  feel  composed,  you  can  come 
in  and  report  concerning  the  errand  she  intrusted  to  you." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  157 


CHAPTER   XXI 

But  had  we  best  retire  ?    I  see  a  storm. 

MILTON. 

ACCORDINGLY,  when  Gertrude  entered  the  room  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  there  was  no  evidence  in  her  appearance  of  any  un 
usual  distress  of  mind.  Mrs.  Bruce  nodded  to  her  good  na- 
turedly  from  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Mr.  Bruce  rose  and  offered 
his  chair,  at  the  same  time  that  Mr.  Graham  pointed  to  a  va 
cant  window-seat  near  him,  and  said  kindly,  "  Here  is  a  place 
for  you,  Gertrude." 

Declining,  however,  the  civilities  of  both  gentlemen,  she 
withdrew  to  an  ottoman  which  stood  near  an  open  glass  door, 
where  she  was  almost  immediately  joined  by  Mr.  Bruce,  who, 
seating  himself  in  an  indolent  attitude  upon  the  upper  row  of  a 
flight  of  steps  which  led  from  the  window  to  the  garden,  com 
menced  conversation  with  her. 

Mr.  Bruce  —  the  same  gentleman  who  some  years  before 
wore  a  velvet  smoking-cap,  and  took  afternoon  naps  in  the  grass 
—  had  recently  returned  from  Europe,  and,  glorying  in  the  re 
nown  acquired  from  a  mustache,  a  French  tailor,  and  the  pos 
session  of  a  handsome  property  in  his  own  right,  now  viewed 
himself  with  more  complacency  than  ever. 

"So  you  've  been  in  Boston  all  day,  Miss  Flint? " 

"Yes,  nearly  all  day." 

"Didn't  you  find  it  distressingly  warm? " 

"  Somewhat  so. " 

"  I  tried  to  go  in  to  attend  to  some  business  that  mother  was 
anxious  about,  and  even  went  down  to  the  depot;  but  I  had 
to  give  it  up." 

"  Were  you  overpowered  by  the  heat  ? " 

"I  was." 

"  How  unfortunate ! "  remarked  Gertrude  in  a  half-compas 
sionate,  half-ironical  tone  of  voice. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  up,  to  judge,  if  possible,  from  her  counte 
nance,  whether  she  were  serious  or  not;  but  there  being  little 


158  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

light  in  the  room,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  the  evening, 
he  could  not  decide  the  question  in  his  mind,  and  therefore 
replied,  "I  dislike  the  heat,  Miss  Gertrude,  and  why  should  I 
expose  myself  to  it  unnecessarily  1 " 

"0,  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  thought  you  spoke  of  important 
business. " 

"Only  some  affair  of  my  mother's.  Nothing  I  felt  any  in 
terest  in,  and  she  took  the  state  of  the  weather  for  an  excuse. 
If  I  had  known  that  you  were  in  the  cars,  as  I  have  since 
heard,  I  should  certainly  have  persevered,  in  order  to  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  walking  down  Washington  Street  with  you." 

"I  did  not  go  down  Washington  Street." 

"  But  you  would  have  done  so  with  a  suitable  escort, "  sug 
gested  the  young  man. 

"  If  I  had  gone  out  of  my  way  for  the  sake  of  accompanying 
my  escort,  the  escort  would  have  been  a  very  doubtful  advan 
tage,"  said  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"  How  very  practical  you  are,  Miss  Gertrude !  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that,  when  you  go  to  the  city,  you  always  have  a  settled 
plan  of  operations,  and  never  swerve  from  your  course  1 " 

"  By  no  means.  I  trust  I  am  not  difficult  to  influence  when 
there  is  a  sufficient  motive." 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip.  "  Then  you  never  act  without 
a  motive;  pray  what  is  your  motive  in  wearing  that  broad- 
brimmed  hat  when  you  are  at  work  in  the  garden  ? " 

"It  is  an  old  habit,  adopted  some  years  ago  from  motives  of 
convenience,  and  still  adhered  to,  in  spite  of  later  inventions, 
which  would  certainly  be  a  better  protection  from  the  sun.  I 
must  plead  guilty,  I  fear,  to  a  little  obstinacy  in  my  partiality 
for  that  old  hat." 

"Why  not  acknowledge  the  truth,  Miss  Gertrude,  and  con 
fess  that  you  wear  it  in  order  to  look  so  very  fanciful  and  pic 
turesque  that  the  neighbors'  slumbers  are  disturbed  by  the  very 
thoughts  of  it  1  My  own  morning  dreams,  for  instance,  as  you 
are  well  aware,  are  so  haunted  by  that  hat,  as  seen  in  company 
with  its  owner,  that  I  am  daily  drawn,  as  if  by  magnetic  at 
traction,  in  the  direction  of  the  garden.  You  will  have  a  heavy 
account  to  settle  with  Morpheus  one  of  these  days,  for  defraud 
ing  him  of  his  rights ;  and  your  conscience,  too,  will  suffer  for 
injuries  to  my  health,  sustained  by  continued  exposure  to  early 
dews." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  159 

"It  is  hard  to  condemn  me  for  such  innocent  and  uninten 
tional  mischief;  but  since  I  am  to  experience  so  much  future 
remorse  on  account  of  your  morning  visits,  I  shall  take  upon 
myself  the  responsibility  of  forbidding  them." 

"O,  you  wouldn't  be  so  unkind!  —  especially  after  all  the 
pains  I  have  taken  to  impart  to  you  the  little  I  know  of  horti 
culture.  " 

"Very  little  I  think  it  must  have  been;  or  I  have  but  a  lit 
tle  memory,7'  said  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"Now,  how  can  you  be  so  ungrateful?  Have  you  forgotten 
the  pains  I  took  yesterday  to  acquaint  you  with  the  different 
varieties  of  roses?  Don't  you  remember  how  much  I  had  to 
say  at  first  of  damask  roses  and  damask  bloom ;  and  how,  be 
fore  I  had  finished,  I  could  not  find  words  enough  in  praise  of 
blushes,  especially  such  sweet  and  natural  ones  as  met  my  eyes 
while  I  was  speaking  ?  " 

"I  know  you  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense.  I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  listened  to  it  all." 

"  0,  Miss  Gertrude !  It  is  of  no  use  to  say  flattering  things 
to  you;  you  alwavs  look  upon  my  compliments  as  so  many 
jokes." 

"I  have  told  you  several  times  that  it  was  the  most  useless 
thing  in  the  world  to  waste  so  much  flattery  upon  me.  I  am 
glad  you  are  beginning  to  realize  it." 

"Well,  then,  to  ask  a  serious  question,  where  were  you  this 
morning  ? " 

"At  what  hour?" 

"Half- past  seven." 

"On  my  way  to  Boston,  in  the  cars." 

"Is  it  possible?  —  so  early!  Why,  I  thought  you  went  at 
ten.  Then  all  the  time  I  was  watching  by  the  garden  wrall  to 
get  a  chance  to  say  good-morning,  you  were  half  a  dozen  miles 
away.  I  wish  I  had  not  wasted  that  hour  so;  I  might  have 
spent  it  in  sleeping." 

"Very  true,  it  is  a  great  pity." 

"And  then  half  an  hour  more  here  this  evening!  How 
came  you  to  keep  me  waiting  so  long  ? " 

"I?_When?" 

"Why,  now,  to-night." 

"I  was  not  aware  of  doing  so.  I  certainly  did  not  take 
your  visit  to  myself." 


160  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"My  visit  certainly  was  not  meant  for  any  one  else." 

"Ben,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  approaching  rather  abruptly,  and 
taking  part  in  the  conversation,  "are  you  fond  of  gardening? 
I  thought  I  heard  you  just  now  speaking  of  roses." 

"Yes,  sir;  Miss  Flint  and  I  were  having  quite  a  discussion 
upon  flowers,  — roses  especially." 

Gertrude,  availing  herself  of  Mr.  Graham's  approach,  tried 
to  make  her  escape  and  join  the  ladies  at  the  sofa;  but  Mr. 
Bruce,  who  had  risen  on  Mr.  Graham's  addressing  him,  saw 
her  intention,  arid  frustrated  it  by  placing  himself  in  the  way, 
so  that  she  could  not  pass  him  without  positive  rudeness.  Mr. 
Graham  continued,  "  I  propose  placing  a  small  fountain  in  the 
vicinity  of  Miss  Flint's  flower  garden;  won't  you  walk  down 
with  me,  and  give  your  opinion  of  my  plan  ? " 

"Isn't  it  too  dark,  sir,  to  —  " 

"No,  no,  not  at  all;  there  is  ample  light  for  our  purpose ; 
this  way,  if  you  please ; "  and  Mr.  Bruce  was  compelled  to  fol 
low  where  Mr.  Graham  led,  though,  in  spite  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Paris  manners,  he  made  a  wry  face,  and  shook  his  head 
menacingly. 

Gertrude  was  now  permitted  to  relate  to  Mrs.  Bruce  the  re 
sults  of  the  shopping  which  she  had  undertaken  on  her  account, 
and  display  the  buttons,  which  proved  very  satisfactory.  The 
gentlemen,  soon  after  returning  to  the  parlor,  took  seats  near 
the  sofa,  and  the  company  forming  one  group,  the  conversation 
became  general. 

"Mr.  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Bruce,  "I  have  been  questioning 
Emily  about  your  visit  to  the  south ;  and  from  the  route  which 
she  tells  me  you  propose  taking,  I  think  it  will  be  a  charming 
trip." 

"I  hope  so,  madam;  we  have  been  talking  of  it  for  some 
time ;  it  will  be  an  excellent  thing  for  Emily,  and  as  Gertrude 
has  never  travelled  at  all,  I  anticipate  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
for  her." 

"Ah!  then  you  are  to  be  of  the  party,  Miss  Flint?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  answered  Mr.  Graham,  without  giv 
ing  Gertrude  a  chance  to  speak  for  herself;  "we  depend  upon 
Gertrude,  — couldn't  get  along  at  all  without  her." 

"It  will  be  delightful  for  you,"  continued  Mrs.  Bruce,  her 
eyes  still  fixed  on  Gertrude. 

"I  did  expect  to  go  with  Mr.  and  Miss  Graham,"  answered 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  161 

Gertrude,  "and  looked  forward  to  the  journey  with  the  great 
est  eagerness;  but  I  have  just  decided  that  I  must  remain  in 
Boston  this  winter." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Gertrude  ? "  asked  Mr.  Gra 
ham.  "What  do  you  mean?  This  is  all  news  to  me." 

"And  to  me  too,  sir,  or  I  should  have  informed  you  of  it 
before.  I  supposed  you  expected  me  to  accompany  you,  and 
there  is  nothing  I  should  like  so  much.  I  should  have  told 
you  before  of  the  circumstances  that  now  make  it  impossible; 
but  they  are  of  quite  recent  occurrence." 

"But  we  can't  give  you  up,  Gertrude;  I  won't  hear  of  such 
a  thing;  you  must  go  with  us,  in  spite  of  circumstances." 

"I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling  plea 
santly,  but  still  retaining  her  firmness  of  expression;  "you  are 
very  kind,  sir,  to  wish  it." 

"Wish  it!  —  I  tell  you  I  insist  upon  it.  You  are  under  my 
care,  child,  and  I  have  a  right  to  say  what  you  shall  do." 

Mr.  Graham  was  beginning  to  get  excited,  Gertrude  and 
Emily  both  looked  troubled,  but  neither  of  them  spoke. 

"Give  me  your  reasons,  if  you  have  any,"  added  Mr.  Gra 
ham  vehemently,  "and  let  me  know  what  has  put  this  strange 
notion  into  your  head." 

"I  will  explain  it  to  you  to-morrow,  sir." 

"To-morrow!  I  want  to  know  now." 

Mrs.  Bruce,  plainly  perceiving  that  a  family  storm  was  brew 
ing,  wisely  rose  to  go.  Mr.  Graham  suspended  his  wrath  until 
she  and  her  son  had  taken  leave,  but  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
closed  upon  them,  burst  forth  with  real  anger. 

"Now  tell  me  what  all  this  means!  Here  I  plan  my  busi 
ness,  and  make  all  my  arrangements,  on  purpose  to  be  able  to 
give  up  this  winter  to  travelling,  —  and  that,  not  so  much  on 
my  own  account  as  to  give  pleasure  to  both  of  you;  and  just 
as  everything  is  settled,  and  we  are  almost  on  the  point  of 
starting,  Gertrude  announces  that  she  has  concluded  not  to  go. 
Now  I  should  like  to  know  her  reasons." 

Emily  undertook  to  explain  Gertrude's  motives,  and  ended 
by  expressing  her  own  approbation  of  her  course.  As  soon  as 
she  had  finished,  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  listened  very  impa 
tiently,  and  interrupted  her  with  many  a  "  pish ! "  and 
"  pshaw !  "  burst  forth  with  redoubled  indignation. 

"So  Gerty  prefers  the  Sullivans  to  us,  and  you  seem  to  en- 


162.  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

courage  her  in  it!  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  've  ever 
done  for  her,  compared  with  what  I  have  done !  " 

"They  have  been  friends  of  hers  for  years,  and  now  that 
they  are  in  great  distress,  she  does  not  feel  as  if  she  could 
leave  them;  and  I  confess  I  do  not  wonder  at  her  decision." 

"I  must  say  I  do.  .She  prefers  to  make  a  slave  of  herself 
in  Mr.  W. 's  school,  and  a  still  greater  slave  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's 
family,  instead  of  staying  with  us,  where  she  has  always  been 
treated  like  a  lady,  and  more  than  that,  like  one  of  my  own 
family!" 

"0,  Mr.  Graham!"  said  Gertrude  earnestly,  "it  is  not  a 
matter  of  preference  or  choice,  except  as  I  feel  it  to  be  a  duty." 

"And  what  makes  it  a  duty?  Just  because  you  used  to  live 
in  the  same  house  with  them,  and  that  boy  out  in  Calcutta  has 
sent  you  home  a  camel's-hair  scarf,  and  a  cage  full  of  miserable 
little  birds,  and  written  you  a  great  package  of  letters,  you 
think  you  must  forfeit  your  own  interests  to  take  care  of  his  sick 
relations!  I  can't  say  that  I  see  how  their  claim  compares  with 
mine.  Have  n't  I  given  you  the  best  of  educations,  and  spared 
no  expense  either  for  your  improvement  or  your  happiness  ? " 

"I  did  not  think,  sir,"  answered  Gertrude  humbly,  and  yet 
with  quiet  dignity,  "of  counting  up  the  favors  I  had  received, 
and  measuring  my  conduct  accordingly.  In  that  case,  my  ob 
ligations  to  you  are  immense,  and  you  would  certainly  have  the 
greatest  claim  upon  my  services." 

"Services!  I  don't  want  your  services,  child.  Mrs.  Ellis 
can  do  quite  as  well  as  you  can  for  Emily,  or  me  either;  but 
I  like  your  company,  and  think  it  is  very  ungrateful  in  you 
to  leave  us,  as  you  talk  of  doing." 

"Father,"  said  Emily,  "I  thought  the  object,  in  giving  Ger 
trude  a  good  education,  was  to  make  her  independent  of  all  the 
world,  and  not  simply  dependent  upon  us." 

"Emily,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "I  tell  you  it  is  a  matter  of 
feeling,  — you  don't  seem  to  look  upon  the  thing  in  the  light 
I  do;  but  you  are  both  against  me,  and  I  won't  talk  any  more 
about  it." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Graham  took  a  lamp,  went  to  his  study,  shut 
the  door  hard,  —  not  to  say  slammed  it,  —  and  was  seen  no 
more  that  night. 

Poor  Gertrude!  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  been  so  kind  and 
generous,  who  had  seldom  before  spoken  harshly  to  her,  and 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  163 

had  always  treated  her  with  great  indulgence,  was  now  deeply 
offended.  He  had  called  her  ungrateful ;  he  evidently  felt  that 
she  had  abused  his  kindness,  and  believed  that  he  and  Emily 
stood  in  her  estimation  secondary  to  other,  and  as  he  considered 
them,  far  less  warm-hearted  friends.  Deeply  wounded  and 
grieved,  she  hastened  to  say  good-night  to  the  no  less  afflicted 
Emily,  and  seeking  her  own  room,  gave  way  to  feelings  that 
exhausted  her  spirit  and  caused  her  a  sleepless  night. 


164  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XXII 

Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

LEFT  at  three  years  of  age  dependent  upon  the  mercy  and 
charity  of  a  world  in  which  she  was  friendless  and  alone,  Ger 
trude  had,  during  the  period  of  her  residence  at  Nan  Grant's, 
found  little  of  that  mercy,  and  still  less  of  that  charity.  But 
although  her  turbulent  spirit  rebelled  at  the  treatment  she  re 
ceived,  she  was  then  too  young  to  reason  upon  the  subject,  or 
come  to  any  philosophical  conclusions  upon  the  general  hard 
ness  and  cruelty  of  humanity;  and  had  she  done  so,  such  im 
pressions  could  not  but  have  been  effaced  amid  the  atmosphere 
of  love  and  kindness  which  surrounded  her  during  the  succeed 
ing  period,  when,  cherished  and  protected  in  the  home  of  her 
kind  foster  father,  she  enjoyed  a  degree  of  parental  tenderness 
which  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  an  orphan. 

And  having,  through  a  similar  providence,  found  in  Emily 
additional  proof  of  the  fact  that  the  tie  of  kindred  blood  is 
not  always  needed  to  bind  heart  to  heart  in  the  closest  bonds 
of  sympathy  and  affection,  she  had  hitherto,  in  her  unusually 
happy  experience,  felt  none  of  the  evils  that  spring  from  de 
pendence  upon  the  bounty  of  strangers.  The  unfriendly  con 
duct  of  Mrs.  Ellis  had  at  times  been  a  source  of  irritation  to 
her;  but  the  housekeeper's  power  and  influence  in  the  family 
were  limited  by  her  own  dependence  upon  the  good  opinion  of 
those  she  served,  and  Gertrude's  patience  and  forbearance  had 
at  last  nearly  disarmed  her  enmity. 

From  Mr.  Graham  she  had  until  now  experienced  only  kind 
ness.  On  her  first  coming  to  live  with  them,  he  had,  to  be 
sure,  taken  very  little  notice  of  her,  and  so  long  as  she  was 
quiet,  well  mannered,  and  no  trouble  to  anybody,  had  been 
quite  indifferent  concerning  her.  He  observed  that  Emily  was 
fond  of  the  girl  and  liked  to  have  her  with  her;  and  though 
he  wondered  at  her  taste,  was  glad  that  she  should  be  indulged. 
It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  was  led  to  notice  in  his 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  165 

daughter's  favorite  a  quickness  of  mind  and  propriety  of  de 
portment  which  had  the  effect  of  creating  an  interest  in  her 
that  soon  increased  to  positive  partiality,  especially  when  he  dis 
covered  her  taste  for  gardening,  and  her  perseverance  in  labor 
ing  among  her  flowers.  He  not  only  set  off  a  portion  of  his 
grounds  for  her  use,  but  charmed  with  her  success  during  the 
h'rst  summer  after  the  appropriation  was  made,  added  to  the 
original  flower-garden,  and  himself  assisted  in  laying  out  and 
ornamenting  it.  Emily  formed  no  plan  with  regard  to  Ger 
trude's  education  to  which  she  did  not  obtain  a  ready  assent 
from  her  father;  and  Gertrude,  deeply  grateful  for  so  much 
bounty,  spared  no  pains  to  evidence  her  sense  of  obligation  and 
regard,  by  treating  Mr.  Graham  with  the  greatest  respect  and 
attention. 

But,  unfortunately  for  the  continuance  of  these  amicable 
relations,  Mr.  Graham  possessed  neither  the  disinterested,  for 
bearing  spirit  of  Uncle  True  or  the  saintly  patience  and  self- 
sacrifice  of  Emily.  Mr.  Graham  was  a  liberal  and  highly 
respectable  man;  he  had  the  reputation,  as  the  world  goes,  of 
being  a  remarkably  high-minded  and  honorable  man;  and  not 
without  reason,  for  his  conduct  had  oftentimes  justified  this 
current  report  of  him.  But,  alas !  he  was  a  selfish  man,  and 
often  took  very  one-sided  views.  He  had  supported  and  edu 
cated  Gertrude,  —  he  liked  her,  —  she  was  the  person  whom 
he  preferred  for  a  travelling  companion  for  himself  and  Emily, 
—  nobody  else  had  any  claim  upon  her  to  compare  with  his,  — 
and  he  either  could  not  or  would  not  see  that  her  duty  lay  in 
any  other  direction. 

And  yet,  while  he  was  ready  to  act  the  tyrant,  he  deceived 
himself  with  the  idea  that  he  was  the  best  friend  she  had  in 
the  world.  He  was  not  capable  of  understanding  that  kind  of 
regard  which  causes  one  to  find  gratification  in  whatever  tends 
to  the  present  or  future  welfare  of  another,  without  reference  to 
himself  or  his  own  interests.  Acting,  therefore,  under  the 
influence  of  his  own  prejudiced  and  narrow  sentiments,  Mr. 
Graham  gave  way  to  his  ill  temper,  and  distressed  Gertrude 
by  the  first  really  harsh  and  severe  language  he  had  ever  used 
towards  her. 

During  the  long  hours  of  a  wakeful  and  restless  night,  Ger 
trude  had  ample  time  to  review  and  consider  her  own  situation 
and  circumstances.  At  first,  her  only  emotion  was  one  of  grief 


166  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

and  distress,  such  as  a  child  might  feel  on  being  reproved;  but 
that  gradually  subsided,  as  other  and  bitter  thoughts  rose  up  in 
her  mind.  "What  right,"  thought  she,  "has  Mr.  Graham  to 
treat  me  thus,  —  to  tell  me  I  shall  go  with  them  on  this 
southern  journey,  and  speak  as  if  my  other  friends  were  ciphers 
in  his  estimation,  and  ought  to  be  in  my  own  ?  Does  he  con 
sider  that  my  freedom  is  to  be  the  price  of  my  education,  and 
am  I  no  longer  to  be  able  to  say  yes  or  no  ?  Emily  does  not 
think  so;  Emily,  who  loves  and  needs  me  a  thousand  times 
more  than  Mr.  Graham,  thinks  I  have  acted  rightly,  and  as 
sured  me,  only  a  few  hours  ago,  that  it  was  my  duty  to  carry 
out  the  plans  I  had  formed.  And  my  solemn  promise  to  Wil 
lie!  is  that  to  be  held  for  nothing?  No,"  thought  she,  "it 
would  be  tyranny  in  Mr.  Graham  to  insist  upon  my  remaining 
with  them,  and  I  am  glad  I  have  resolved  to  break  away  from 
such  thraldom.  Besides,  I  was  educated  to  teach,  and  Mr.  W. 
says  it  is  important  to  commence  at  once,  while  my  studies  are 
fresh  in  my  mind.  Perhaps,  if  I  yielded  now,  and  stayed  here 
living  in  luxury,  I  should  continue  to  do  so  until  I  lost  the 
power  of  regaining  my  independence.  It  is  cruel  in  Mr.  Gra 
ham  to  try  to  deprive  me  of  my  free  will." 

So  much  said  pride;  and  Gertrude's  heart,  naturally  proud, 
and  only  kept  in  check  by  strict  and  conscientious  self-control, 
listened  awhile  to  such  suggestions.  But  not  long.  She  had 
accustomed  herself  to  view  the  conduct  of  others  in  that  spirit 
of  charity  which  she  desired  should  be  exercised  towards  her 
own,  and  milder  thoughts  soon  took  the  place  of  these  excited 
and  angry  feelings. 

"Perhaps,"  said  she  to  herself,  as  she  reviewed  in  her  mind 
the  conversation  of  the  evening,  "  it  is,  after  all,  pure  kindness 
to  me  that  prompted  Mr.  Graham's  interference.  He  may 
think,  as  Emily  does,  that  I  am  undertaking  too  much.  It  is 
impossible  for  him  to  know  how  strong  my  motives  are,  how 
deep  I  consider  my  obligations  to  the  Sullivans,  and  how  much 
I  am  needed  by  them  at  this  time.  I  had  no  idea,  either,  that 
it  was  such  an  understood  thing  that  I  was  to  be  of  the  party 
to  the  south;  for  though  Emily  talked  as  if  she  took  it  for 
granted,  Mr.  Graham  never  spoke  of  it,  or  asked  me  to  go,  and 
I  could  not  suppose  it  would  be  any  great  disappointment  to 
him  to  have  me  refuse;  but  after  his  planning  the  journey,  as 
he  says  he  has  done,  with  reference  to  the  enjoyment  of  us 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  167 

both,  I  do  not  wonder  at  his  being  somewhat  annoyed.  He 
probably  feels,  too,  as  if  I  had  been  under  his  guardianship  so 
long  that  he  has  almost  a  right  to  decide  upon  my  conduct. 
And  he  has  been  very  indulgent  to  me,  —  and  I  a  stranger, 
with  no  claims !  0 !  I  hate  to  have  him  think  me  so  ungrate 
ful! 

"Shall  I  then  decide  to  give  up  my  teaching,  go  to  the 
south,  and  leave  dear  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  suffer,  perhaps  die, 
while  I  am  away  1  No,  that  is  impossible.  I  will  never  be 
such  a  traitor  to  my  own  heart  and  my  sense  of  right;  sorry 
as  I  shall  be  to  offend  Mr.  Graham,  I  must  not  allow  fear  of 
his  anger  to  turn  me  from  my  duty." 

Having  thus  resolved  to  brave  the  tempest  that  she  well 
knew  she  must  encounter,  and  committed  her  cause  to  Him 
who  judgeth  righteously,  Gertrude  tried  to  compose  herself  to 
sleep,  but  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  any  untroubled  rest. 
Scarcely  had  slumber  eased  her  mind  of  the  weight  that  pressed 
upon  it,  before  dreams  of  an  equally  painful  nature  seized  upon 
her,  and  startled  her  back  to  consciousness.  In  some  of  these 
visions  she  beheld  Mr.  Graham,  angry  and  excited  as  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  threatening  her  with  the  severest  marks 
of  his  displeasure  if  she  dared  to  thwart  his  plans;  and  then, 
again,  she  seemed  to  see  Willie,  the  same  boyish  youth  from 
whom  she  had  parted  nearly  five  years  before,  beckoning  her 
with  a  sad  countenance  to  the  room  where  his  pale  mother  lay 
in  a  swoon,  as  Gertrude  had  a  few  weeks  before  discovered  her. 
Exhausted  by  a  succession  of  such  harassing  images,  she  at 
length  gave  up  the  attempt  to  obtain  any  rest  through  sleep, 
and  rising,  seated  herself  at  the  window,  where,  watching  the 
now  descending  moon,  and  the  first  approach  of  dawn,  she 
found,  in  quiet  self -communing,  the  strength  and  courage  which 
she  felt  would  be  requisite  to  carry  her  calmly  and  firmly 
through  the  following  day;  a  day  destined  to  witness  her  sad 
separation  from  Emily,  and  her  farewell  to  Mr.  Graham,  which 
would  probably  be  of  a  still  more  distressing  character.  It 
may  seem  strange  that  anything  more  than  ordinary  mental 
courage  and  decision  should  be  needful  to  sustain  Gertrude  un 
der  the  present  emergency.  But  in  truth,  it  required  no  small 
amount  of  both  these  qualities  for  a  young  girl  of  eighteen 
years,  long  dependent  upon  the  liberality  of  an  elderly  man, 
well  known  as  a  stern  dictator  in  his  household,  to  suddenly 


168  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

break  the  bonds  of  custom  and  habit,  and  mark  out  a  course 
for  herself  in  opposition  to  his  wishes  and  intentions;  -and 
nothing  but  an  urgent  motive  could  have  led  the  grateful  and 
peace-loving  Gertrude  to  such  a  step.  The  tyrannical  disposi 
tion  of  Mr.  Graham  was  well  understood  in  his  family,  each 
member  of  which  was  accustomed  to  respect  all  his  wishes  and 
whims ;  and  though  he  was  always  indulgent,  and  usually  kind, 
none  ever  ventured  to  brave  a  temper  which,  when  excited, 
was  violent  in  the  extreme.  It  cannot  then  be  surprising  that 
Gertrude's  heart  should  have  almost  failed  her,  when  she  stood, 
half  an  hour  before  breakfast  time,  with  the  handle  of  the  din 
ing-room  door  in  her  hand,  summoning  all  her  energies  for  an 
other  meeting  with  the  formidable  opposer  of  her  plans.  She 
paused  but  a  moment,  however,  then  opened  the  door  and  went 
in.  Mr.  Graham  was  where  she  expected  to  see  him,  sitting 
in  his  arm-chair,  and  on  the  breakfast  table  by  his  side  lay  the 
morning  paper.  It  had  been  Gertrude's  habit,  for  a  year  or 
two,  to  read  that  paper  aloud  to  the  old  gentleman  at  this  same 
hour,  and  it  was  for  that  very  purpose  she  had  now  come. 

She  advanced  towards  him  with  her  usual  "good-morning." 

The  salutation  was  returned  in  a  purposely  constrained  voice. 
She  seated  herself,  and  leaned  forward  to  take  the  newspaper, 
but  he  placed  his  hand  upon  it  and  prevented  her. 

"I  was  going  to  read  the  news  to  you,  sir." 

"And  I  do  not  wish  to  have  you  read,  or  do  anything  else 
for  me,  until  I  know  whether  you  have  concluded  to  treat  me 
with  the  respect  I  have  a  right  to  demand  from  you." 

"I  certainly  never  intended  to  treat  you  otherwise  than  with 
respect,  Mr.  Graham." 

"  When  girls  or  boys  set  themselves  up  in  opposition  to  those 
older  and  wiser  than  themselves,  they  manifest  the  greatest 
disrespect  they  are  capable  of;  but  I  am  willing  to  forgive  the 
past,  if  you  assure  me,  as  I  think  you  will  after  a  night's  re 
flection,  that  you  have  returned  to  a  right  sense  of  your  duty." 

"I  cannot  say,  sir,  that  I  have  changed  my  views  with  re 
gard  to  what  that  duty  is." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me, "  asked  Mr.  Graham,  rising  from 
his  chair  and  speaking  in  a  tone  which  made  Gerty's  heart 
quake,  in  spite  of  her  brave  resolutions,  "do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  have  any  idea  of  persisting  in  your  folly  1 " 

"Is  it  folly,  sir,  to  do  right?" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  169 

"Right!  —  There  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  between 
you  and  me  as  to  what  right  is  in  this  case." 

"But,  Mr.  Graham,  I  think  if  you  knew  all  the  circum 
stances,  you  would  not  blame  my  conduct.  I  have  told  Emily 
the  reasons  that  influenced  me,  and  she  —  " 

"Don't  quote  Emily  to  me!"  interrupted  Mr.  Graham,  as 
he  walked  the  floor  rapidly.  "I  don't  doubt  she'd  give  her 
head  to  anybody  that  asked  for  it;  but  I  hope  I  know  a  little 
better  what  is  due  to  myself;  and  I  tell  you  plainly,  Miss  Ger 
trude  Flint,  without  any  more  words  in  the  matter,  that  if  you 
leave  my  house,  as  you  propose  doing,  you  leave  it  with  my 
displeasure;  and  that,  you  may  find  one  of  these  days,  it  is 
no  light  thing  to  have  incurred,  —  unnecessarily,  too, "  he  mut 
tered,  —  "as  you  are  doing." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  displease  you,  Mr.  Graham,  but  —  " 

"No,  you're  not  sorry  ;  if  you  were,  you  would  not  walk 
straight  in  the  face  of  my  wishes,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  who  be 
gan  to  observe  the  expression  of  Gertrude's  face,  which,  though 
grieved  and  troubled,  had  in  the  last  few  minutes  acquired  ad 
ditional  firmness,  instead  of  quailing  beneath  his  severe  and 
cutting  words;  "but  I  have  said  enough  about  a  matter  which 
is  not  worthy  of  so  much  notice.  You  can  go  or  stay,  as  you 
please.  I  wish  you  to  understand,  however,  that  in  the  former 
case  I  utterly  withdraw  my  protection  and  assistance  from  you. 
You  must  take  care  of  yourself,  or  trust  to  strangers.  I  sup 
pose  you  expect  your  Calcutta  friend  will  support  you,  perhaps 
come  home  and  take  you  under  his  especial  care ;  but  if  you 
think  so,  you  know  little  of  the  world.  I  dare  say  he  is  mar 
ried  to  an  Indian  by  this  time,  and  if  not,  has  pretty  much  for 
gotten  you." 

"Mr.  Graham,"  said  Gertrude  proudly,  "Mr.  Sullivan  will 
not  probably  return  to  this  country  for  many  years,  and  I  as 
sure  you  I  neither  look  to  him  or  any  one  else  for  support;  I 
intend  to  earn  a  maintenance  for  myself." 

"  A  heroic  resolve !  "  said  Mr.  Graham  contemptuously, 
"and  pronounced  with  a  dignity  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to 
maintain.  Am  I  to  consider,  then,  that  your  mind  is  made 
up?" 

"It  is,  sir,"  said  Gertrude,  not  a  little  strengthened  for  the 
dreaded  necessity  of  pronouncing  her  final  resolution  by  Mr. 
Graham's  sarcastic  speeches. 


170  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"And  you  go?" 

"I  must.  I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty,  and  am  therefore 
willing  to  sacrifice  my  own  comfort,  and,  what  I  assure  you  I 
value  far  more,  your  friendship." 

Mr.  Graham  did  not  seem  to  take  the  least  notice  of  the  lat 
ter  part  of  her  remark,  and  before  she  had  finished  speaking  so 
far  forgot  his  usual  politeness  as  to  drown  her  voice  in  the  vio 
lent  ringing  of  the  table  bell. 

It  was  answered  by  Katy  with  the  breakfast,  and  Emily  and 
Mrs.  Ellis  coming  in  at  the  same  moment,  all  seated  themselves 
at  table,  and  the  meal  was  commenced  in  unusual  silence  and 
constraint;  for  Emily  had  heard  the  loud  tones  of  her  father's 
voice,  and  was  filled  with  anxiety  and  alarm,  while  Mrs.  Ellis 
plainly  saw,  from  the  countenances  of  all  present,  that  some 
thing  unpleasant  had  occurred. 

When  Mr.  Graham,  whose  appetite  appeared  undiminished, 
had  finished  eating  a  hearty  breakfast,  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Ellis, 
and  deliberately  and  formally  invited  her  to  accompany  himself 
and  Emily  on  their  journey  to  the  south,  mentioning  the  prob 
ability  that  they  should  pass  some  weeks  in  Havana. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  never  before  heard  any  intimation  that 
such  a  tour  was  contemplated,  accepted  the  invitation  with 
pleasure  and  alacrity,  and  proceeded  to  ask  a  number  of  ques 
tions  concerning  the  proposed  route  and  length  of  absence ; 
while  Emily  hid  her  agitated  face  behind  her  tea-cup ;  and  Ger 
trude,  who  had  lately  been  reading  "Letters  from  Cuba,"  and 
was  aware  that  Mr.  Graham  knew  the  strong  interest  she  con 
sequently  felt  in  the  place,  pondered  in  her  mind  whether  it 
were  possible  that  he  could  be  guilty  of  the  small  and  mean 
desire  to  vex  and  mortify  her. 

Breakfast  over,  Emily  hastily  sought  her  room,  where  she 
was  immediately  joined  by  Gertrude. 

In  answering  Emily's  earnest  inquiries  as  to  the  scene  which 
had  taken  place,  Gertrude  forebore  to  repeat  Mr.  Graham's 
most  bitter  and  wounding  remarks;  for  she  saw,  from  her  kind 
friend's  pained  and  anxious  countenance,  how  deeply  she  par 
ticipated  in  her  own  sense  of  wrong  and  misapprehension.  She 
told  her,  however,  that  it  was  now  well  understood  by  Mr. 
Graham  that  she  was  to  leave,  and  as  his  sentiments  towards 
her  were  far  from  kindly,  she  thought  it  best  to  go  at  once, 
especially  as  she  could  never  be  more  needed  by  Mrs.  Sullivan 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  171 

than  at  present.  Emily  saw  the  reasonableness  of  the  pro 
posal,  assented  to  it,  and  agreed  to  accompany  her  to  town  that 
very  afternoon;  for  deeply  sensitive  at  any  unkindness  mani 
fested  towards  Gertrude,  she  preferred  to  have  her  depart 
thus  abruptly,  rather  than  encounter  her  father's  contemptuous 
neglect. 

The  remainder  of  the  day,  therefore,  was  spent  by  Gertrude 
in  packing  and  other  preparations;  while  Emily  sat  by,  coun 
selling  and  advising  the  future  conduct  of  her  adopted  darling, 
lamenting  the  necessity  of  their  separation,  and  exchanging 
with  her  reiterated  assurances  of  continued  and  undiminished 
affection. 

"0!  if  you  could  only  write  to  me,  dear  Emily,  during  your 
long  absence,  what  a  comfort  it  would  be ! "  exclaimed  Ger 
trude. 

"With  Mrs.  Ellis's  assistance,  my  dear,"  replied  Emily,  "I 
will  send  you  such  news  as  I  can  of  our  movements;  but 
though  you  may  not  be  able  to  hear  much  from  me,  you  will 
be  ever  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  shall  never  forget  to  commend 
my  beloved  child  to  the  protection  and  care  of  One  who  will 
be  to  her  a  better  counsellor  and  friend  than  I  can  be." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Gertrude  sought  Mrs.  Ellis,  and 
astonished  that  lady  by  announcing  that  she  had  come  to  have 
a  few  farewell  words  with  her.  Surprise  and  curiosity,  how 
ever,  were  soon  superseded  by  the  housekeeper's  eagerness  to 
expatiate  upon  the  kindness  and  generosity  of  Mr.  Graham,  and 
the  delights  of  the  excursion  in  prospect.  After  wishing  her 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  Gertrude  begged  to  hear  from  her  by 
letter  during  her  absence ;  to  which  apparently  unheard  request 
Mrs.  Ellis  only  replied  by  asking  if  Gertrude  thought  a  thibet 
dress  would  be  uncomfortable  on  the  journey;  and  when  it  was 
repeated  with  still  greater  earnestness,  she,  with  equal  unsatis- 
factoriness  to  the  suppliant  for  epistolary  favors,  begged  to  know 
how  many  pairs  of  undersleeves  she  should  probably  require. 
Having  responded  to  her  questions,  and  at  last  gained  her  ear 
and  attention,  Gertrude  obtained  from  her  a  promise  to  write 
one  letter,  which  would,  she  declared,  be  more  than  she  had 
done  for  years. 

Before  leaving  the  house,  Gertrude  sought  Mr.  Graham's 
study,  in  hopes  that  he  would  take  a  friendly  leave  of  her;  but 
on  her  telling  him  that  she  had  come  to  bid  him  "good-by," 


172  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

he  indistinctly  muttered  the  simple  words  of  that  universal 
formula,  so  deep  in  its  meaning  when  coming  from  the  heart, 
so  chilling  when  uttered,  as  on  the  present  occasion,  by  stern 
and  nearly  closed  lips;  and  turning  his  back  upon  her,  took 
up  the  tongs  to  mend  his  fire. 

So  she  went  away,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye  and  sadness  in  her 
heart,  for  until  now  Mr.  Graham  had  been  a  good  friend  to 
her. 

A  far  different  scene  awaited  her  in  the  upper  kitchen,  where 
she  went  to  seek  Mrs.  Prime  and  Katy. 

"  Bless  yer  soul,  dear  Miss  Gertrude ! "  said  the  former, 
stumbling  up  the  staircase  which  led  from  the  lower  room,  and 
wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron,  "how  we  shall  miss  yer!  Why, 
the  house  won't  be  worth  livin'  in  when  you  're  out  of  it.  My 
gracious!  if  you  don't  come  back,  we  shall  all  die  out  in  a  fort 
night.  Why,  you  're  the  life  and  soul  of  the  place !  But  there, 
I  guess  you  know  what  's  right;  so  if  you  must  go,  we  must 
bear  it,  —  though  Katy  and  I  '11  cry  our  eyes  out,  for  aught  I 
know. " 

"Sure,  Miss  Gairthrude,"  said  Irish  Katy,  "and  it's  right 
gude  in  you  to  be  afther  comin'  to  bid  us  good-by.  I  don't 
see  how  you  gets  memory  to  think  of  us  all,  and  I  'm  shure 
yer  '11  never  be  betther  off  than  what  I  wish  yer.  I  can't  but 
think,  miss,  it  '11  go  to  help  yer  along,  that  everybody's  gude 
wishes  and  blessin'  goes  with  yer." 

"Thank  you,  Katy,  thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,  much 
touched  by  the  simple  earnestness  of  these  good  friends.  "  You 
must  come  and  see  me  some  time  in  Boston ;  and  you  too,  Mrs. 
Prime,  I  shall  depend  upon  it.  Good-by ; "  and  the  good-by 
that  now  fell  upon  Gertrude's  ear  was  a  hearty  and  a  true  one; 
it  followed  her  through  the  hall,  and  as  the  carryall  drove  away 
she  heard  it  mingling  with  the  rattling  of  the  vehicle. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  173 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

One  of  that  stubborn  sort  he  is, 
Who,  if  they  once  grow  fond  of  an  opinion, 
They  call  it  honor,  honesty,  and  faith, 
And  sooner  part  with  life  than  let  it  go. 

ROWE. 

PASSING  over  Gertrude's  parting  with  Emily,  her  cordial 
reception  by  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  her  commencement  of  school 
duties,  we  will  look  in  upon  her  and  record  the  events  of  a  day 
in  November,  about  two  months  after  she  left  Mr.  Graham's. 

Rising  with  the  sun,  she  made  her  neat  toilet  in  a  room  so 
cold  that  before  it  was  completed  her  hands  were  half  be 
numbed  ;  nor  did  she,  in  spite  of  the  chilling  atmosphere,  omit, 
ere  she  commenced  the  labors  of  the  day,  to  supplicate  Heaven's 
blessing  upon  them.  Then,  noiselessly  entering  the  adjoining 
apartment,  where  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  still  sleeping,  she  lit  a 
fire,  the  materials  for  which  had  been  carefully  prepared  the 
night  before,  in  a  small  grate,  and  descending  the  stairs  with 
the  same  light  footstep,  performed  a  similar  service  at  the  cook 
ing  stove,  which  stood  in  a  comfortable  room,  where,  now  that 
the  weather  was  cold,  the  family  took  their  meals.  The  table 
was  set,  and  the  preparations  for  breakfast  nearly  completed, 
when  Mrs.  Sullivan  entered,  pale,  thin,  and  feeble  in  her  ap 
pearance,  and  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl. 

"Gertrude,"  said  she,  "why  will  you  let  me  sleep  so  morn 
ings,  while  you  are  up  and  at  work  ?  I  believe  it  has  happened 
so  every  day  this  week." 

"For  the  very  best  reason  in  the  world,  auntie:  because  I 
sleep  all  the  early  part  of  the  night,  and  am  wide  awake  at 
daybreak,  and  with  you  it  is  just  the  reverse.  Besides,  I  like 
to  get  the  breakfast,  I  make  such  beautiful  coffee.  Look ! " 
said  she,  pouring  some  into  a  cup,  and  then  lifting  the  lid  of 
the  coffee-pot  and  pouring  it  back  again;  "see  how  clear  it  is! 
Don't  you  long  for  some  of  it  this  cold  morning? " 

Mrs.   Sullivan  smiled;  for  Uncle  True  having  always  pre- 


174  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

ferred  tea,  Gertrude  did  not  at  first  know  how  to  make  coffee, 
and  had  been  obliged  to  come  to  her  for  instructions. 

"Now,"  said  Gertrude  playfully,  as  she  drew  a  comfortable 
chair  close  to  the  fire,  "I  want  you  to  sit  down  here  and  watch 
the  tea-kettle  boil,  while  I  run  and  see  if  Mr.  Cooper  is  ready 
to  let  me  tie  up  his  cue." 

She  went,  leaving  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  think  what  a  good  girl 
she  was,  and  presently  returning  with  the  old  man,  who  was 
dressed  with  perfect  neatness,  she  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and 
having  waited,  as  for  a  child,  while  he  seated  himself,  and  then 
pinned  a  napkin  about  his  throat,  she  proceeded  to  place  the 
breakfast  on  the  table. 

While  Mrs.  Sullivan  poured  out  the  coffee,  Gertrude,  with 
a  quiet  tact  which  rendered  the  action  almost  unobserved,  re 
moved  the  skin  from  a  baked  potato  and  the  shell  from  a  boiled 
egg,  and  placing  both  on  the  plate  destined  for  Mr.  Cooper, 
handed  him  his  breakfast  in  a  state  of  preparation  which  obvi 
ated  the  difficulty  the  old  man  experienced  in  performing  these 
tasks  for  himself,  and  spared  Mrs.  Sullivan  the  anxiety  she 
always  felt  at  witnessing  his  clumsiness  and  sadly  increasing 
carelessness  on  those  points  of  neatness  so  sacred  in  her  eyes. 
Poor  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  no  appetite,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
Gertrude  persuaded  her  to  eat  anything;  a  few  fried  oysters, 
however,  unexpectedly  placed  before  her,  proved  such  a  temp 
tation  that  she  was  induced  to  taste  and  finally  to  eat  several, 
with  a  degree  of  relish  she  rarely  felt  lately  for  any  article  of 
food.  As  Gertrude  gazed  at  her  languid  face,  she  realized, 
more  than  ever  before,  the  change  which  had  come  over  the 
active,  energetic  little  woman;  and  confident  that  nothing  but 
positive  disease  could  have  effected  such  a  transformation,  she 
resolved  that  not  another  day  should  pass  without  her  seeing  a 
physician. 

Breakfast  over,  there  were  dishes  to  wash,  rooms  to  be  put 
in  order,  dinner  to  be  decided  on  and  partially  prepared;  and 
all  this  Gertrude  exerted  herself  and  saw  accomplished,  chiefly 
through  her  own  labor,  before  she  went  to  rearrange  her  dress, 
previous  to  her  departure  for  the  school,  where  she  had  now 
been  some  weeks  installed  as  assistant  teacher.  A  quarter  be 
fore  nine  she  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  door  and  said,  in  a  cheer 
ing  tone  to  the  old  man,  who  was  cowering  gloomily  over  the 
fire,  — 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  175 

"Come,  Mr.  Cooper,  won't  you  go  over  and  superintend  the 
new  church  a  little  while  this  morning  1  Mr.  Miller  will  be 
expecting  you;  he  said  yesterday  that  he  depended  on  your 
company  when  he  was  at  work." 

The  old  man  rose,  and  taking  his  great-coat  from  Gertrude, 
put  it  on  with  her  assistance,  and  accompanied  her  in  a  me 
chanical  sort  of  way,  that  seemed  to  imply  a  great  degree  of 
indifference  whether  he  went  or  stayed.  As  they  walked  in 
silence  down  the  street,  Gertrude  could  not  but  revolve  in  her 
mind  the  singular  coincidence  which  had  thus  made  her  the 
almost  daily  companion  of  another  infirm  old  man;  nor  could 
she  fail  to  draw  a  comparison  between  the  genial,  warm-hearted 
Uncle  True  and  the  gloomy,  discontented  Paul  Cooper,  who, 
never,  as  we  have  said,  possessing  a  genial  temperament,  now 
retained,  in  his  state  of  mental  imbecility,  his  old  characteris 
tics  in  an  exaggerated  form.  Unfavorable  as  the  comparison 
necessarily  was  to  the  latter,  it  did  not  diminish  the  kindness 
and  thoughtfulness  of  Gertrude  towards  her  present  charge, 
who  was  in  her  eyes  an  object  of  sincere  compassion.  They 
soon  reached  the  new  church  of  which  Gertrude  had  spoken, 
—  a  handsome  edifice,  built  on  the  site  of  the  old  building  in 
which  Mr.  Cooper  had  long  officiated  as  sexton.  It  was  not 
yet  finished,  and  a  number  of  workmen  were  at  this  time  en 
gaged  in  the  completion  of  the  interior. 

A  man  with  a  hod  full  of  mortar  preceded  Gertrude  and  her 
companion  up  the  steps  which  led  to  the  main  entrance,  but 
stopped  inside  the  porch,  on  hearing  himself  addressed  by  name, 
and  laying  down  his  burden,  turned  to  respond  to  the  well- 
known  voice. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Flint,"  said  he.  "I  hope  you  're  very 
well,  this  fine  day.  Ah!  Mr.  Cooper,  you've  come  to  help 
me  a  little,  I  see;  that's  right!  We  can't  go  on  very  well 
without  you  —  you  're  so  used  to  the  place.  Here,  sir, 
if  you  '11  come  with  me,  I  '11  show  you  what  has  been  done 
since  you  were  here  last;  I  want  to  know  how  you  think  we 
get  along." 

So  saying,  he  was  walking  away  with  the  old  sexton ;  but 
Gertrude  followed,  and  detained  him  a  moment,  to  ask  if  he 
would  do  her  the  favor  to  see  Mr.  Cooper  safe  home  when  he 
passed  Mrs.  Sullivan's  house  on  his  way  to  dinner. 

"Certainly,  Miss  Flint,"    replied  the  man,    "with  all  the 


176  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

pleasure  in  the  world ;  he  has  usually  gone  with  me  pretty  reacU 
ily,  when  you  have  left  him  in  my  care." 

Having  obtained  this  promise,  Gertrude  hastened  towards 
the  school,  rejoicing  in  the  certainty  that  Mr.  Cooper  would  be 
safe  and  well  amused  during  the  morning,  and  that  Mrs.  Sulli 
van,  freed  from  all  responsibility  concerning  him,  would  be  left 
to  the  rest  and  quiet  she  so  much  needed. 

This  cordial  coadjutor  in  Gertrude's  plan  of  diverting  and 
occupying  the  old  man's  mind  was  a  respectable  mason,  who 
had  often  been  in  Mr.  Graham's  employ,  and  whose  good-will 
and  gratitude  Gertrude  had  won  by  the  kindness  and  attention 
she  had  shown  his  family  during  the  previous  winter,  when 
they  were  sick  and  afflicted.  In  her  daily  walk  past  the  church, 
she  had  frequently  seen  Mr.  Miller  at  his  work,  and  it  occurred 
to  her  that,  if  she  could  awaken  in  Mr.  Cooper's  mind  an  in 
terest  in  the  new  structure,  he  might  find  amusement  in  coming 
there  and  watching  the  workmen.  She  had  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  him  to  visit  a  building  to  the  erection  of  which  he 
had  been  vehemently  opposed,  not  only  because  it  was  inimical 
to  his  interests,  but  on  account  of  the  strong  attachment  he  had 
for  the  old  place  of  worship.  Once  there,  however,  he  became 
interested  in  the  work,  and  as  Mr.  Miller  took  pains  to  make 
him  comfortable,  and  even  awakened  in  him  the  belief  that  he 
was  useful,  he  gradually  acquired  a  habit  of  passing  the  greater 
part  of  every  morning  in  watching  the  men  engaged  in  their 
various  branches  of  industry.  Sometimes  Gertrude  called  for 
him  on  her  return  from  school;  and  sometimes,  as  on  the 
present  occasion,  Mr.  Miller  undertook  to  accompany  him 
home. 

Since  Gertrude  had  been  at  Mrs.  Sullivan's  there  was  a  very 
perceptible  alteration  in  Mr.  Cooper.  He  was  much  more  man 
ageable,  looked  better  contented,  and  manifested  far  less  irrita 
bility  than  he  had  previously  done;  and  this  favorable  change, 
together  with  the  cheering  influence  of  Gertrude's  society,  had 
for  a  time  produced  a  proportionately  beneficial  effect  upon 
Mrs.  Sullivan ;  but  within  the  last  few  days,  her  increased  de 
bility,  and  one  or  two  sudden  attacks  of  faintness,  had  awak 
ened  all,  and  more  than  all,  of  Gertrude's  former  fears.  She 
had  left  home  with  the  determination,  as  soon  as  she  should 
be  released  from  her  school  duties,  to  seek  Dr.  Jeremy  and  re 
quest  his  attendance;  and  it  was  in  order  to  secure  leisure  foi 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  177 

that  purpose  that  she  had  solicited  Mr.  Miller's  superintending 
care  for  Mr.  Cooper. 

Of  Gertrude's  school  duties  we  shall  say  nothing,  save  that 
she  was  found  by  Mr.  W.  fully  competent  to  the  performance 
of  them,  and  that  she  met  with  those  trials  and  discouragements 
only  to  which  all  teachers  are  more  or  less  subjected,  from  the 
idleness,  obstinacy,  or  stupidity  of  their  pupils.  On  this  day, 
however,  she  was,  from  various  causes,  detained  to  a  later  hour 
than  usual,  and  the  clock  struck  two  at  the  very  moment  that 
she  was  ringing  Dr.  Jeremy's  doorbell.  The  girl  who  opened 
the  door  knew  Gertrude  by  sight,  having  often  seen  her  at  her 
master's  house;  and  telling  her  that,  though  the  doctor  was 
just  going  to  dinner,  she  thought  he  would  see  her,  asked  her 
into  the  office,  where  he  stood,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  eating 
an  apple,  as  it  was  his  invariable  custom  to  do  before  dinner. 
He  laid  it  down,  however,  and  advanced  to  meet  Gertrude,  hold 
ing  out  both  his  hands.  "  Gertrude  Flint,  I  declare ! "  ex 
claimed  he.  "  Why,  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  my  girl.  Why 
have  n't  you  been  here  before,  I  should  like  to  know? " 

Gertrude  explained  that  she  was  living  with  friends,  one  of 
whom  was  very  old,  the  other  an  invalid;  and  that  so  much 
of  her  time  was  occupied  in  school  that  she  had  no  opportunity 
for  visiting. 

"Poor  excuse!"  said  the  doctor;  "poor  excuse!  But  now 
we  've  got  you  here,  we  sha'n't  let  you  go  very  soon;"  and  go 
ing  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  he  called,  in  the  loudest  possible 
tone  of  voice,  "  Mrs.  Jerry !  Mrs.  Jerry !  come !  —  come  down 
to  dinner  as  quick  as  you  can,  and  put  on  your  best  cap,  — 
we  've  got  company.  Poor  soul!"  added  he,  in  a  lower  tone, 
addressing  himself  to  Gertrude,  and  smiling  good-naturedly, 
"she  can't  hurry,  can  she,  Gerty? —  she's  fat." 

Gertrude  now  protested  against  staying  to  dinner,  declaring 
she  must  hasten  home,  and  announcing  Mrs.  Sullivan's  illness 
as  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"An  hour  can't  make  much  difference  in  such  a  case,"  in 
sisted  the  doctor.  "You  must  stay  and  dine  with  me,  and 
then  I  '11  go  wherever  you  wish,  and  take  you  with  me  in  the 
buggy." 

Gertrude  hesitated;  the  sky  had  clouded  over,  and  a  few 
flakes  of  snow  were  falling;  she  should  have  an  uncomfortable 
walk  ;  and,  moreover,  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  accompany 


178  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

the  doctor,  as  the  street  in  which  she  lived  was  principally 
composed  of  new  houses,  not  yet  numbered,  and  he  might,  if 
he  were  alone,  have  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  right  tene 
ment. 

At  this  stage  of  her  reflections,  Mrs.  Jeremy  entered.  Fat 
she  certainly  was,  very  uncommonly  fat,  and  flushed,  too,  with 
her  unwonted  haste  and  the  excitement  of  anticipating  the 
company  of  a  stranger.  She  kissed  Gertrude  in  the  kindest 
manner,  and  then,  looking  round  and  seeing  that  there  was  no 
one  else  present,  exclaimed,  glancing  reproachfully  at  the  doctor. 

"Why,  Dr.  Jerry!  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  I  never 
will  believe  you  again;  you  made  me  think  there  was  some 
great  stranger  here." 

"And  pray,  Mrs.  Jerry,  who's  a  greater  stranger  in  this 
house  than  Gerty  Flint  1 " 

"  Sure  enough !  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "  Gertrude  is  a  stran 
ger,  and  I  've  got  a  scolding  in  store  for  her  on  that  very  ac 
count;  but  you  know,  Dr.  Jerry,  I  shouldn't  have  put  on  my 
lilac  and  pink  for  Gertrude  to  see;  she  likes  me  just  as  well  in 
my  old  yellow,  if  she  did  tell  me,  when  I  bought  it,  the  saucy 
girl,  that  I  'd  selected  the  ugliest  cap  in  Boston.  Do  you  re 
member  that,  Gerty  ? " 

Gerty  laughed  heartily  at  the  recollection  of  a  very  amusing 
scene  that  took  place  at  the  milliner's  when  she  went  shopping 
with  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "But  come,  Gerty,"  continued  that  lady, 
"dinner  's  ready;  take  off  your  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  come  into 
the  dining-room;  the  doctor  has  got  a  great  deal  to  say,  and 
has  been  wanting  dreadfully  to  see  you." 

They  had  been  sitting  some  minutes  without  a  word's  having 
been  spoken,  beyond  the  usual  civilities  of  the  table,  when  the 
doctor,  suddenly  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  commenced 
laughing,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  Ger 
trude  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  Mrs.  Jeremy  said,  "  There, 
Gertrude!  —  for  one  whole  week  he  had  just  such  a  laughing 
fit,  two  or  three  times  a  day.  I  was  as  much  astonished  at  first 
as  you  are;  and  I  confess  I  don't  quite  understand  now  what 
could  have  happened  between  him  and  Mr.  Graham  that  was  so 
very  funny." 

"Come,  wife,"  said  the  doctor,  checking  himself  in  his  mer 
riment;  "don't  you  forestall  my  communication.  I  want  to 
tell  the  story  myself.  I  don't  suppose,"  continued  he,  turning 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  179 

towards  Gertrude,  "you've  lived  five  years  at  Mr.  Graham's, 
without  finding  out  what  a  cantankerous,  opinionative,  obsti 
nate  old  hulk  he  is  1 " 

"Doctor!"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy  reprovingly,  and  shaking  her 
head  at  him. 

"I  don't  care  for  winking  or  head-shaking,  wife;  I  speak 
my  mind,  and  that 's  the  conclusion  I  've  come  to  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Graham;  and  Gertrude,  here,  has  done  the  same,  I 
haven't  a  particle  of  doubt,  only  she  's  a  good  girl,  and  won't 
say  so." 

"I  never  saw  anything  that  looked  like  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Jeremy,  "and  I  've  seen  as  much  of  him  as  most  folks.  I  meet 
him  in  the  street  almost  every  day,  and  he  looks  as  smiling  as 
a  basket  of  chips,  and  makes  a  beautiful  bow." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  the  doctor;  "Gertrude  and  I  know  what 
gentlemanly  manners  he  has  when  one  does  not  walk  in  the 
very  teeth  of  his  opinions,  —  eh,  Gertrude  ?  —  but  when  one 
does  —  " 

"In  talking  politics,  for  instance,"  suggested  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
"It's  your  differences  with  him  on  politics  that  have  set  you 
against  him  so." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  replied  the  doctor.  "A  man  may  get  angry 
talking  politics,  and  be  a  pretty  good-natured  man  too,  in  the 
main.  I  get  angry  myself  on  politics,  but  that  isn't  the  sort 
of  thing  I  have  reference  to  at  all.  It 's  Graham's  wanting  to 
lay  down  the  law  to  everybody  that  comes  within  ten  miles  of 
him  that  I  can't  endure ;  his  dictatorial  way  of  acting,  as  if  he 
were  the  Grand  Mogul  of  Cochin  China.  I  thought  he  'd  im 
proved  of  late  years ;  he  had  a  serious  lesson  enough  in  that 
sad  affair  of  poor  Philip  Amory's;  but,  fact,  I  believe  he  's  been 
trying  the  old  game  again.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "  shouted  the  good 
doctor,  leaning  forward,  and  giving  Gertrude  a  light  tap  on  the 
shoulder;  "wasn't  I  glad  when  I  found  he'd  met  at  last 
with  a  reasonable  opposition?  and  that,  too,  where  he  least 
expected  it. ! " 

Gertrude  looked  her  astonishment  at  his  evident  knowledge 
of  the  misunderstanding  between  herself  and  Mr.  Graham ;  and 
in  answer  to  that  look  he  continued,  "You  wonder  where  I 
picked  up  my  information,  and  I  '11  tell  you.  It  was  partly 
from  Graham  himself;  and  what  diverts  me  is  to  think  how 
hard  the  old  chap  tried  to  hide  his  defeat,  and  persuade  me 


180  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

that  he  'd  had  his  own  way  after  all,  when  I  saw  through  him, 
and  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that  he  'd  found  his  match  in 
you. " 

"Dr.  Jeremy,"  interposed  Gertrude,  "I  hope  you  don't 
think  —  " 

"No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  you  &  prof  essed  pugilist ;  but 
I  consider  you  a  girl  of  sense  —  one  who  knows  what's  right 
—  and  will  do  what's  right,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Graham  or  any 
body  else;  and  when  you  hear  my  story  you  will  know  the 
grounds  on  which  I  formed  my  opinion  with  regard  to  the 
course  things  had  taken,  and  the  reasons  I  have  for  understand 
ing  the  state  of  the  case  rather  better  than  Graham  meant  I 
should.  One  day  —  perhaps  it  was  about  two  months  ago  — 
you  may  remember  the  exact  time  better  than  I  do  —  I  was 
summoned  to  go  and  see  one  of  Mr.  W. 's  children  who  had 
an  attack  of  croup.  Mr.  W.  was  talking  with  me,  when  he 
was  called  away  to  see  a  visitor,  and  on  his  return  he  men 
tioned  that  he  had  just  secured  your  services  in  his  school.  I 
was  not  surprised,  for  I  knew  Emily  intended  you  for  a 
teacher,  and  I  was  thankful  you  had  got  so  good  a  situation. 
I  had  hardly  left  Mr.  W. 's  door,  however,  before  I  encountered 
Mr.  Graham,  and  he  entertained  me,  as  we  went  down  the 
street,  with  an  account  of  his  plans  for  the  winter.  '  But  Ger 
trude  Flint  is  not  going  with  you,'  said  I.  —  'Gertrude! '  said 
he;  'certainly  she  is.'  —  'Are  you  sure  of  that1?'  I  asked. 
'  Have  you  invited  her  ?  '  —  '  Invited  her !  —  No, '  was  his  an 
swer  ;  '  but  of  course  I  know  she  will  go,  and  be  glad  enough 
of  the  opportunity;  it  isn't  every  girl  in  her  situation  that  is 
so  fortunate. '  Now,  Gerty,  I  felt  a  little  provoked  at  his  way 
of  speaking,  and  I  answered,  in  nearly  as  confident  a  tone  as 
his  own,  '  I  doubt,  myself,  whether  she  will  accept  the  invita 
tion. '  Upon  that,  Mr.  Dignity  straightened  up,  and  such  a 
speech  as  he  made !  I  never  can  recall  it  without  being  amused, 
especially  when  I  think  of  the  come-down  that  followed  so  soon 
after.  I  can't  repeat  it;  but  goodness,  Gertrude!  one  would 
have  thought,  to  hear  him,  that  it  was  not  only  impossible  you 
should  oppose  his  wishes,  but  actual  treason  in  me  to  suggest 
such  a  thing.  Of  course,  I  knew  better  than  to  tell  what  I 
had  just  heard  from  Mr.  W.,  but  I  never  felt  a  greater  curios 
ity  about  anything  than  I  did  to  know  how  the  matter  would 
end.  Two  or  three  times  I  planned  to  drive  out  with  my  wife, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  181 

see  Emily,  and  hear  the  result;  but  a  doctor  never  can  call 
a  day  his  own,  and  I  got  prevented.  At  last,  one  Sunday,  I 
heard  Mrs.  Prime's  voice  in  the  kitchen  (her  niece  lives  here), 
and  down  I  went  to  make  my  inquiries.  That  woman  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  Gertrude,  and  pretty  sharp  where  you  are  con 
cerned.  She  told  me  the  truth,  I  rather  think;  though  not, 
perhaps,  all  the  particulars.  It  was  not  more  than  a  day  or 
two  after  that  before  I  saw  Graham.  *  Ah ! '  said  I ;  '  when  do 
you  start?'  —  'To-morrow,'  replied  he.  —  'Really, '  I  ex 
claimed,  'then  I  sha'n't  see  your  ladies  again.  Will  you  take 
a  little  package  from  me  to  Gertrude ? '  —  'I  know  nothing 
about  Gertrude!'  said  he  stiffly. — 'What!'  rejoined  I,  af 
fecting  the  greatest  surprise,  c  has  Gertrude  left  you  1 '  —  '  She 
has, '  answered  he.  —  *  And  dared, '  continued  I,  quoting  his 
own  words,  '  to  treat  you  with  such  disrespect,  —  to  trifle  so 
with  your  dignity  1 '  —  'Dr.  Jeremy ! '  exclaimed  he,  '  I  don't 
wish  to  hear  that  young  person  mentioned;  she  has  behaved  as 
ungratefully  as  she  has  unwisely. '  —  '  Why,  about  the  gratitude, 
Graham, '  said  I,  '  I  believe  you  said  it  would  only  be  an  addi 
tional  favor  on  your  part  if  you  took  her  with  you,  and  I  can't 
say  but  what  I  think  it  is  wisdom  in  her  to  make  herself  inde 
pendent  at  home.  But  I  really  am  sorry  for  you  and  Emily ; 
you  will  miss  her  so  much. '  — '  We  can  dispense  with  your 
sympathy,  sir, '  answered  he,  '  for  that  which  is  no  loss. '  — 
'Ah!  really! '  I  replied;  'now,  I  was  thinking  Gertrude's  so 
ciety  would  be  quite  a  loss.'  — '  Mrs.  Ellis  goes  with  us,'  said 
he  with  a  marked  emphasis,  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  a  per 
son  whose  company  compensated  for  all  deficiencies.  —  '  Ah !  ' 
said  I,  '  charming  woman,  Mrs.  Ellis ! '  Graham  looked  an 
noyed,  for  he  is  aware  that  Mrs.  Ellis  is  my  antipathy." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  known  better,  Dr.  Jerry,"  said 
his  kind-hearted  wife,  "than  to  have  attacked  a  man  so  on  his 
weak  point;  it  was  only  exciting  his  temper  for  nothing." 

"I  was  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  Gertrude,  wife." 

"And  I  don't  believe  Gertrude  wants  you  to  take  up  the 
cudgels  for  her.  I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that  she  has  the 
kindest  of  feelings  towards  Mr.  Graham,  this  blessed  minute." 

"I  have  indeed,  Mrs.  Jeremy,"  said  Gertrude;  "he  has 
been  a  most  generous  and  indulgent  friend  to  me." 

"Except  when  you  wanted  to  have  your  own  way,"  sug 
gested  the  doctor. 


182  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Which  I  seldom  did,  when  it  was  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes." 

"And  what  if  it  were?" 

"I  always  considered  it  my  duty  to  submit  to  him,  until  at 
last  a  higher  duty  compelled  me  to  do  otherwise." 

"And  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "I  dare  say  it 
pained  you  to  displease  him;  and  that  is  a  right  woman's  feel 
ing,  and  one  that  Dr.  Jerry,  in  his  own  heart,  can't  hut  ap 
prove  of,  though  one  would  think,  to  hear  him  talk,  that  he 
considered  it  pretty  in  a  young  girl  to  take  satisfaction  in  brow 
beating  an  old  gentleman.  But  don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  it;  he  has  had  his  say,  and  now  it 's  my  turn.  I  want 
to  hear  how  you  are  situated,  Gerty,  where  you  live,  and  how 
you  like  teaching." 

Gertrude  answered  all  these  questions;  and  the  doctor,  who 
had  heard  Mrs.  Sullivan  spoken  of  as  a  friend  of  True's  and 
Gerty 's,  at  the  time  when  he  attended  the  former,  made  many 
inquiries  concerning  the  state  of  her  health.  It  was  by  this 
time  beginning  to  snow  fast,  and  Gertrude's  anxiety  to  return 
home  in  good  season  being  very  manifest  to  her  kind  host  and 
hostess,  they  urged  no  further  delay,  and  after  she  had  given 
many  a  promise  to  repeat  her  visit  on  the  earliest  opportunity, 
she  drove  away  with  the  doctor. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  183 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

No  simplest  duty  is  forgot  ; 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

LOWELL. 

"I  HAVE  been  thinking,"  said  Gertrude,  as  she  drew  neal 
home,  "how  we  shall  manage,  doctor,  so  as  not  to  alarm  Mrs. 
Sullivan." 

"What 's  going  to  alarm  her?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"You,  if  she  knows  at  once  that  you  are  a  physician.  I 
think  I  had  better  introduce  you  as  a  friend,  who  brought  me 
home  in  the  storm. " 

"0!  so  we  are  going  to  act  a  little  farce,  are  we?  Stage 
manager,  Gertrude  Flint;  unknown  stranger,  Dr.  Jeremy. 
I  'm  ready.  What  shall  I  say  first?  " 

"I  leave  that  to  a  wiser  head  than  mine,  doctor,  and  trust 
entirely  to  your  own  discretion  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of 
her  symptoms,  and  only  gradually  disclose  to  her  that  you  are 
a  physician." 

"Ah,  yes!  pretend,  at  first,  to  be  only  a  private  individual 
of  a  very  inquiring  mind.  I  think  I  can  manage  it." 

They  went  in.  As  they  opened  the  door,  Mrs.  Sullivan 
rose  from  her  chair  with  a  troubled  countenance,  and  hardly 
waited  for  the  introduction  to  Gertrude's  friend  before  she 
turned  to  her  and  asked,  with  some  anxiety,  if  Mr.  Cooper 
were  not  with  them. 

"  No,  indeed, "  replied  Gertrude.     "  Has  n't  he  come  home  ?  " 

Upon  Mrs.  Sullivan's  saying  that  she  had  not  seen  him  since 
morning,  Gertrude  informed  her,  with  a  composure  she  was  far 
from  feeling,  that  Mr.  Miller  had  undertaken  the  care  of  him, 
and  could  undoubtedly  account  for  his  absence.  She  would 
seek  him  at  once. 

"0,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "that  you  should 
have  to  go  out  again  in  such  a  storm !  but  I  feel  very  anxious 
about  grandpa  —  don't  you,  Gerty  ?  " 


184  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Not  very;  I  think  he  is  safe  in  the  church.  But  I  '11  go 
for  him  at  once;  you  know,  auntie,  I  never  mind  the  weather." 

"Then  take  my  great  shawl,  dear."  And  Mrs.  Sullivan 
went  to  the  entry  closet  for  her  shawl,  giving  Gertrude  an 
opportunity  to  beg  of  Dr.  Jeremy  that  he  would  await  her  re 
turn;  for  she  knew  that  any  unusual  agitation  of  mind  would 
often  occasion  an  attack  of  faintness  in  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  was 
afraid  to  have  her  left  alone,  to  dwell  with  anxiety  and  alarm 
upon  Mr.  Cooper's  prolonged  absence. 

It  was  a  very  disagreeable  afternoon,  and  already  growing 
dark.  Gertrude  hastened  along  the  wet  sidewalks,  exposed  to 
the  blinding  storm  (for  the  wind  would  not  permit  her  to  carry 
an  umbrella),  and  after  passing  through  several  streets,  gained 
the  church.  She  went  into  the  building,  now  nearly  deserted 
by  the  workmen,  saw  at  once  that  Mr.  Cooper  was  not  there, 
and  was  beginning  to  fear  that  she  should  gain  no  information 
concerning  him,  when  she  met  Mr.  Miller  coming  from  the 
gallery.  He  looked  surprised  at  seeing  her,  and  asked  if  Mr. 
Cooper  had  not  returned  home.  She  answered  in  the  negative, 
and  he  then  informed  her  that  his  utmost  efforts  were  insuffi 
cient  to  persuade  the  old  man  to  go  home  at  dinner  time,  and 
that  he  had  therefore  taken  him  to  his  own  house ;  he  had  sup 
posed,  however,  that  long  before  this  hour  he  would  have  been 
induced  to  allow  one  of  the  children  to  accompany  him  to  Mrs. 
Sullivan's. 

As  it  now  seemed  probable  that  he  was  still  at  Mr.  Miller's, 
Gertrude  took  the  direction  (for  the  family  had  moved  within 
a  year,  and  she  did  not  know  where  to  seek  them),  and  declin 
ing  the  company  of  the  friendly  mason,  whom  she  was  unwill 
ing  to  take  from  his  work,  proceeded  thither  at  once.  After 
another  uncomfortable  walk,  and  some  difficulty  in  finding  the 
right  street  and  house,  she  reached  her  destination.  She 
knocked  at  the  outside  door;  but  there  was  no  response,  and 
after  waiting  a  moment,  she  opened  it  and  went  in.  Through 
another  door  at  the  right,  there  was  the  sound  of  children's 
voices,  and  so  much  noise  that  she  believed  it  impossible  to 
make  herself  heard,  and  therefore,  without  further  ceremony, 
entered  the  room.  A  band  of  startled  children  dispersed  at 
the  sight  of  a  stranger,  and  ensconced  themselves  in  corners; 
and  Mrs.  Miller,  in  dismay  at  the  untidy  appearance  of  her 
kitchen,  hastily  pushed  back  a  clothes-horse  against  the  wall, 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  185 

thereby  disclosing  to  view  the  very  person  Gertrude  had  come 
to  seek,  who,  in  his  usual  desponding  attitude,  sat  cowering 
over  the  fire.  But  before  she  could  advance  to  speak  to  him, 
her  whole  attention  was  arrested  by  another  and  most  unex 
pected  sight.  Placed  against  the  side  of  the  room,  directly 
opposite  the  door,  was  a  narrow  bed,  in  which  some  person 
seemed  to  be  sleeping.  Hardly,  however,  had  Gertrude  pre 
sented  herself  in  the  doorway,  before  the  figure  suddenly  raised 
itself,  gazed  fixedly  at  her,  lifted  a  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  her 
approach,  and  uttered  a  piercing  shriek. 

The  voice  and  countenance  were  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  Ger 
trude,  pale  and  trembling,  felt  something  like  a  revival  of  her 
old  dread,  as  she  beheld  the  well-known  features  of  Nan  Grant. 

"  Go  away !  go  away  !  "  cried  Nan,  as  Gertrude,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  advanced  into  the  room.  Again  Gertrude 
paused,  for  the  wildness  of  Nan's  eyes  and  the  excitement  of 
her  countenance  were  such  that  she  feared  to  excite  her  further. 

Mrs.  Miller  now  came  forward,  and  interfered.  "Why, 
Aunt  Nancy!"  said  she,  "what  is  the  matter1?  This  is  Miss 
Flint,  one  of  the  best  young  ladies  in  the  land." 

"No,  't ain't!  "  said  Nan  fiercely.      "I  know  better!  " 

Mrs.  Miller  now  drew  Gertrude  aside,  into  the  shadow  of 
the  clothes-horse,  and  conversed  with  her  in  an  undertone, 
while  Nan,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  and  peering  after  them  into 
the  dim  corner  to  which  they  had  retreated,  maintained  a 
watchful,  listening  attitude.  Gertrude  was  informed  that  Mrs. 
Miller  was  a  niece  of  Ben  Grant's,  but  had  seen  nothing  of 
him  or  his  wife  for  years,  until  a  few  days  previous,  Nan  had 
come  there  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  destitution,  and  threatened 
with  the  fever  under  which  she  was  now  laboring.  "I  could 
not  refuse  her  a  shelter,"  said  Mrs.  Miller;  "but  as  you  see, 
I  have  no  accommodation  for  her,  and  it 's  not  only  bad  for  me 
to  have  her  sick  right  here  in  the  kitchen,  but  what  with  the 
noise  of  the  children  and  all  the  other  discomforts,  I  'm  afraid 
the  poor  old  thing  will  die. " 

"  Have  you  a  room  that  you  could  spare  above  stairs  ?  "  asked 
Gertrude. 

"Why,  there  's  our  Jane,"  answered  Mrs.  Miller,  "and  she  's 
as  good-hearted  a  girl  as  ever  lived ;  she  said,  right  off,  she  'd  give 
up  her  room  to  poor  Aunt  Nancy,  and  she  'd  sleep  in  with  the 
other  children;  I  didn't  feel,  though,  as  if  we  could  afford  to 


186  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

keep  another  fire  a-going,  and  so  I  thought  we  'd  put  up  a  bed 
here  for  a  day  or  two,  and  just  see  how  she  got  along.  But 
she  's  looked  pretty  bad  to-day,  and  now  I  'm  thinking,  from 
her  actions,  that  she  's  considerable  out  of  her  head." 

"She  ought  to  be  kept  quiet,"  said  Gertrude;  "and  if  you 
will  have  a  fire  in  Jane's  room  at  my  expense,  and  do  what 
you  can  to  make  her  comfortable,  I  '11  try  and  send  a  physician 
here  to  see  her."  Mrs.  Miller  was  beginning  to  express  the 
warmest  gratitude,  but  Gertrude  interrupted  her  with  saying, 
"Don't  thank  me,  Mrs.  Miller;  Nancy  is  not  a  stranger  to  me; 
I  have  known  her  before,  and  perhaps  feel  more  interest  in  her 
than  you  do  yourself. " 

Mrs.  Miller  looked  surprised;  but  Gertrude,  whose  time  was 
limited,  could  not  stop  to  enter  into  a  further  explanation. 
Anxious,  however,  if  possible,  to  speak  to  Nan,  and  assure  her 
of  her  friendly  intentions,  she  went  boldly  up  to  the  side  of 
the  bed,  in  spite  of  the  wild  and  glaring  eyes  which  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  her. 

"Nan,"  said  she,  "do  you  know  me?" 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  replied  Nan  in  a  half  whisper,  speaking  quickly 
and  catching  her  breath;  "what  have  you  come  for? " 

"To  do  you  good,  I  hope." 

But  Nan  still  looked  incredulous,  and  in  the  same  under 
tone,  and  with  the  same  nervous  accent,  inquired,  "Have  you 
seen  Gerty  ?  "Where  is  she  ?  " 

"She  is  well,"  answered  Gertrude,  astonished,  however,  at 
the  question,  for  she  had  supposed  herself  recognized. 

"What  did  she  say  about  me  ?  " 

"She  says  that  she  forgives  and  pities  you,  and  is  in  hopes 
to  do  something  to  help  you  and  make  you  well." 

"Did  she?"  said  the  sick  woman.  "Then  you  won't  kill 
me?" 

"Kill  you?  No,  indeed.  We  are  in  hopes  to  make  you 
comfortable,  and  cure  you." 

Mrs.  Miller,  who  had  been  preparing  a  cup  of  tea,  now  drew 
near,  with  it  in  her  hand.  Gertrude  took  it  and  offered  it  to 
Nan,  who  drank  eagerly  of  it,  staring  at  her,  however,  in  the 
mean  time,  over  the  edge  of  the  cup.  When  she  had  finished, 
she  threw  herself  heavily  upon  the  pillow,  and  began  muttering 
some  indistinct  sentences,  the  only  distinguishable  word  being 
the  name  of  her  son  Stephen.  Finding  the  current  of  her 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  187 

thoughts  thus  apparently  diverted,  Gertrude,  now  feeling  in 
haste  to  return  and  relieve  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  had  so  kindly 
agreed  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  moved  a  little  from  the  bed 
side,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  Good- by,  I  will  come  and  see  you 
again. " 

"You  won't  hurt  me?"  exclaimed  Nan,  starting  up  once 
more. 

"  0  no.      I  will  try  to  bring  you  something  you  will  like. " 

"Don't  bring  Gerty  here  with  you!  I  don't  want  to  see 
her." 

"I  will  come  alone,"  replied  Gertrude. 

Nan  now  lay  down,  and  did  not  speak  again  while  Gertrude 
remained  in  the  house,  though  she  watched  her  steadily  until 
she  was  outside  the  door.  Mr.  Cooper  made  no  objection  to 
accompanying  his  young  guide;  and  though  the  severity  of  the 
storm  was  such  that  they  did  not  escape  a  thorough  wetting, 
they  reached  home  in  safety,  in  little  more  than  an  hour  from 
the  time  she  started  on  her  expedition. 

Dr.  Jeremy,  seated  at  the  side  of  the  grate,  with  his  feet 
upon  the  fender,  had  the  contented  appearance  of  one  who  is 
quite  at  home;  he  seemed,  indeed,  unconscious  that  he  was 
waiting  for  Gertrude's  return,  or  anything  else  but  his  own 
pleasure.  He  had  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Sullivan  about  the 
people  of  a  country  town  where  they  had  both  passed  some 
time  in  their  childhood,  and  the  timid,  retiring  woman  had,  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  come  to  feel  so  much  at  her  ease 
in  the  society  of  the  social  and  entertaining  physician,  that 
although  he  had,  in  his  unguarded  discourse,  accidentally  dis 
closed  his  profession,  she  allowed  him  to  question  her  upon 
the  state  of  her  health,  without  any  of  the  alarm  she  had  ner 
vously  fancied  she  should  feel  at  the  very  sight  of  a  doctor. 
By  the  time  Gertrude  returned,  he  had  made  himself  well  ac 
quainted  Avith  the  case,  and  was  prepared,  on  Mrs.  Sullivan's 
leaving  the  room  to  provide  dry  clothes  for  her  father,  to  report 
to  Gertrude  his  opinion. 

"Gertrude,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  shut,  "that 's 
a  very  sick  woman." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Dr.  Jeremy  ? "  said  Gertrude,  much 
alarmed,  and  sinking  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"I  do,"  replied  he  thoughtfully,  "I  wish  to  mercy  I  had 
seen  her  six  months  ago !  " 


188  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Why,  doctor!  Do  you  date  her  illness  so  far  back  as 
that?" 

"Yes,  and  much  further.  She  has  borne  up  under  the 
gradual  progress  of  a  disease  which  is  now,  I  fear,  beyond  the 
aid  of  medical  treatment." 

"Dr.  Jeremy, "  said  Gertrude  in  tones  of  great  distress,  "you 
do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  auntie  is  going  to  die,  and  leave  me 
and  her  poor  old  father,  and  without  ever  seeing  Willie  again, 
too !  0,  I  had  hoped  it  was  not  nearly  so  bad  as  that !  " 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  Gertrude, "  said  the  doctor  kindly.  "  I 
did  not  mean  to  frighten  you;  she  may  live  some  time  yet. 
I  can  judge  better  of  her  case  in  a  day  or  two.  But  it  is  abso 
lutely  unsafe  for  you  to  be  here  alone  with  these  two  friends 
of  yours,  —  to  say  nothing  of  its  overtasking  your  strength.  Has 
not  Mrs.  Sullivan  the  means  to  keep  a  nurse,  or  even  a  domes 
tic?  She  tells  me  she  has  no  one." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Gerty;  "her  son  supplies  her 
wants  most  generously.  I  know  that  she  never  draws  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  amount  he  is  anxious  she  should  expend." 

"Then  you  must  speak  to  her  about  getting  some  one  to 
assist  you  at  once;  for  if  you  do  not,  /shall." 

"I  intend  to,"  said  Gertrude.  "I  have  seen  the  necessity 
for  some  time  past;  but  she  has  such  a  dread  of  strangers  that 
I  hated  to  propose  it." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  doctor;  "that's  only  imagination  in 
her;  she  would  soon  get  used  to  being  waited  upon." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  now  returned,  and  Gertrude,  giving  an  ac 
count  of  her  unexpected  rencounter  with  Nan  Grant,  begged 
Dr.  Jeremy,  who  knew  the  particulars  of  her  own  early  life, 
and  had  frequently  heard  of  Nan,  to  go  the  next  day  and  see 
her.  "It  will  be  a  visit  of  charity,"  said  she,  "for  she  is 
probably  penniless,  and  though  staying  with  your  old  patients 
the  Millers,  she  is  but  distantly  connected,  and  has  no  claim 
upon  them.  That  never  makes  any  difference  with  you,  how 
ever,  I  know  very  well." 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,"  answered  the  doctor.  "I  '11  go  and 
see  her  to-night,  if  the  case  require  it,  and  to-morrow  I  shall 
look  in  to  report  how  she  is,  and  hear  the  rest  of  what  Mrs. 
Sullivan  was  telling  me  about  her  wakeful  nights.  But,  Ger 
trude,  do  you  go,  child,  and  change  your  wet  shoes  and  stock 
ings.  I  shall  have  you  on  my  hands  next." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  189 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  delighted  with  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  when  he 
was  gone  eagerly  sounded  his  praise.  "So  different,"  said  she, 
"from  common  doctors  (a  portion  of  humanity  for  which  she 
seemed  to  have  an  unaccountable  aversion);  so  sociable  and 
friendly !  Why,  I  felt,  Gertrude,  as  if  I  could  talk  to  him 
about  my  sickness  as  freely  as  I  could  to  you." 

Gertrude  readily  joined  in  the  praises  bestowed  upon  her 
much  valued  friend,  and  it  was  tea  time  before  Mrs.  Sullivan 
was  weary  of  the  subject.  After  the  evening  meal  was  over, 
and  Mr.  Cooper,  much  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day, 
had  been  persuaded  to  retire  to  rest,  while  Mrs,  Sullivan,  com 
fortably  reclining  on  the  sofa,  was  enjoying  what  she  always 
termed  her  happiest  hour,  -Gertrude  broached  the  subject  re 
commended  by  Dr.  Jeremy.  Contrary  to  her  expectations, 
Mrs.  Sullivan  no  longer  objected  to  the  proposal  of  introducing 
a  domestic  into  the  family.  She  was  convinced  of  her  own 
incompetency  to  perform  any  active  labor,  and  was  equally 
opposed  to  the  exertion  on  Gertrude's  part  which  had,  during 
the  last  week,  been  requisite.  Gertrude  suggested  Jane  Miller 
as  a  girl  remarkably  well  suited  to  their  wants,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  she  should  be  applied  for  on  the  following  morning. 

One  more  glance  at  Gertrude,  and  we  shall  have  followed  her 
to  the  conclusion  of  the  day.  She  is  alone.  It  is  ten  o'clock, 
and  the  house  is  still.  Mr.  Cooper  is  sound  asleep.  Gertrude 
has  just  listened  at  his  door,  and  heard  his  loud  breathing. 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  under  the  influence  of  a  soothing  draught  recom 
mended  by  Dr.  Jeremy,  has  fallen  into  an  unusually  quiet 
slumber.  The  little  Calcutta  birds,  ten  in  number,  that  occupy 
a  large  cage  in  the  window,  are  nestled,  side  by  side,  on  their 
slender  perch,  in  a  close,  unbroken  row,  and  Gertrude  has 
thrown  a  warm  covering  over  them,  that  they  may  not  suffer 
from  the  cold  night  air.  She  has  locked  the  doors,  made  all 
things  safe,  fast,  and  comfortable,  and  now  sits  down  to  read, 
to  meditate,  and  pray.  Her  trials  and  cares  are  multiplying. 
A  great  grief  stares  her  in  the  face,  and  a  great  responsibility ; 
but  she  shrinks  not  from  either.  No!  on  the  contrary,  she 
thanks  God  that  she  is  here;  that  she  had  the  resolution  to 
forsake  pleasure  and  ease,  and,  in  spite  of  her  own  weakness 
and  man's  wrath,  to  place  herself  in  the  front  of  life's  battle, 
and  bravely  wait  its  issues.  She  thanks  God  that  she  knows 
where  to  look  for  help ;  that  the  bitter  sorrows  of  her  childhood 


190  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

and  early  youth  left  her  not  without  a  witness  of  His  love  who 
can  turn  darkness  into  light,  and  that  no  weight  can  now  over 
shadow  her  whose  gloom  is  not  illumined  by  rays  from  the  throne 
of  God.  But  though  her  heart  is  brave  and  her  faith  firm,  she 
has  a  woman's  tender  nature;  and  as  she  sits  alone,  she  weeps 
—  weeps  for  herself,  and  for  him  who,  far  away  in  a  foreign 
land,  is  counting  the  days,  the  months,  and  years  which  shall 
restore  him  to  a  mother  he  is  destined  never  to  see  again.  With 
the  recollection,  however,  that  she  is  to  stand  in  the  place  of  a 
child  to  that  parent,  and  that  hers  is  the  hand  that  must  soothe 
the  pillow  of  the  invalid,  and  minister  to  all  her  wants,  comes 
the  stern  necessity  of  self-control,  —  a  necessity  to  which  Ger 
trude  has  long  since  learned  to  submit;  and  rallying  all  her 
calmness  and  fortitude,  she  wipes  away  the  blinding  tears,  com 
mends  herself  to  Him  who  is  strength  to  the  weak  and  comfort 
to  the  sorrowing,  and  soothed  by  the  communion  of  her  spirit 
with  the  Father  of  spirits,  she  seeks  her  couch,  and  worn  out 
by  the  varied  mental  and  bodily  fatigues  of  her  day's  experi 
ence,  follows  the  rest  of  the  household  to  the  land  of  dreams. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  191 


CHAPTER   XXV 

Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 
Visit  the  soul  in  sleep. 

SHELLEY. 

IT  was  a  fortunate  thing  for  Gertrude  that  Thanksgiving 
week  was  approaching,  as  that  was  a  vacation  time  at  Mr.  W. 's 
school,  and  she  would  thus  be  more  at  leisure  to  attend  to  her 
multiplied  cares.  She  considered  herself  favored,  too,  in  ob 
taining  the  services  of  Jane,  who  willingly  consented  to  come 
and  help  Miss  Gertrude.  She  did  not,  she  said,  exactly  like 
the  idea  of  living  out,  but  couldn't  refuse  a  young  lady  who 
had  been  so  good  to  them  in  times  past.  Gertrude  had  feared 
that,  with  Nan  Grant  sick  in  the  house,  Mrs.  Miller  would  not 
be  able  to  give  up  her  eldest  daughter;  but  Mary,  a  second 
girl,  having  returned  home  unexpectedly,  one  of  them  could  be 
very  conveniently  spared.  Under  Gertrude's  tuition,  Jane, 
who  was  neat  and  capable,  was  able,  after  a  few  days,  to  relieve 
Mrs.  Sullivan  of  nearly  all  her  household  duties,  and  so  far 
provide  for  many  of  her  personal  wants  as  to  leave  Gertrude  at 
liberty  to  pay  frequent  visits  to  the  sick-room  of  Nan,  whose 
fever,  having  reached  its  height,  rendered  her  claim  for  aid  at 
present  the  most  imperative. 

We  need  hardly  say  that,  in  Gertrude's  still  vivid  recollec 
tion  of  her  former  sufferings  under  the  rule  of  Nan,  there  re 
mained  nothing  of  bitterness  or  a  spirit  of  revenge.  If  she 
remembered  the  past,  it  was  only  to  pity  and  forgive  her  per 
secutor;  if  she  meditated  upon  the  course  she  should  herself 
pursue  towards  her  once  hated  tyrant,  it  was  only  to  revolve 
in  her  mind  how  she  could  best  serve  and  comfort  her. 

Therefore,  night  after  night  found  her  watching  by  the  bed 
side  of  the  sick  woman,  who,  though  still  delirious,  had  entirely 
lost  the  fear  and  dread  she  had  at  first  seemed  to  feel  at  her 
presence.  Nan  talked  much  of  little  Gerty,  —  sometimes  in  a 
way  that  led  Gertrude  to  believe  herself  recognized,  but  more 
frequently  as  if  the  child  were  supposed  to  be  absent;  and  it 


192  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

was  not  until  a  long  time  after  that  Gertrude  was  led  to  adopt 
the  correct  supposition,  which  was  that  she  had  been  mistaken 
for  her  mother,  whom  she  much  resembled,  and  whom,  though 
tended  in  her  last  sickness  by  Nan  herself,  the  fevered,  dis 
eased,  and  conscience-stricken  sufferer  believed  had  come  back 
to  claim  her  child  at  her  hands.  It  was  only  the  continued 
assurances  of  good- will  on  Gertrude's  part,  and  her  unwearied 
efforts  to  soothe  and  comfort  her,  that  finally  led  Nan  to  the 
belief  that  the  injured  mother  had  found  her  child  in  health 
and  safety,  and  was  ignorant  of  the  wrongs  and  unkindness  she 
had  endured. 

One  night  —  it  was  the  last  of  Nan's  life  —  Gertrude,  who 
had  scarcely  left  her  during  the  previous  day,  and  was  still 
maintaining  her  watch,  heard  her  own  name  mingled  with  those 
of  others  in  a  few  rapid  sentences.  She  approached  the  bed 
and  listened  intently,  for  she  was  always  in  hopes,  during  these 
partly  incoherent  ravings,  to  gain  some  information  concerning 
her  own  early  life.  Her  name  was  not  repeated,  however,  and 
for  some  time  the  muttering  of  Nan's  voice  was  indistinct. 
Then  suddenly  starting  up  and  addressing  herself  to  some  im 
aginary  person,  she  shouted  aloud,  "Stephie!  Stephie!  give 
me  back  the  watch,  and  tell  me  what  you  did  with  the  rings ! 
They  will  ask  — those  folks! — and  what  shall  I  tell  them?" 
Then,  after  a  pause,  during  which  her  eyes  were  fixed  steadily 
upon  the  wall,  she  said  in  a  more  feeble  but  equally  earnest 
voice,  "No,  no,  Stephie,  I  never '11  tell. — I  never,  never 
will !  "  The  moment  the  words  had  left  her  lips,  she  started, 
turned,  saw  Gertrude  standing  by  the  bedside,  and  with  a 
frightened  look,  shrieked  rather  than  asked,  "Did  you  hear? 
Did  you  hear?  —  You  did, "  continued  she,  "and  you '11  tell! 
0,  if  you  do  !  "  She  was  here  preparing  to  spring  from  the 
bed,  but  overcome  with  exhaustion  sunk  back  on  the  pillow. 
Summoning  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Miller,  who  half  expecting  to 
be  called  up  during  the  night  had  lain  down  in  the  next  room, 
the  agitated  Gertrude,  believing  that  her  own  presence  was  too 
exciting,  left  the  now  dying  woman  to  their  care,  and  sought 
in  another  part  of  the  house  to  calm  her  disturbed  mind  and 
disordered  nerves.  Learning,  about  an  hour  afterwards,  from 
Mrs.  Miller  that  Nan  had  become  comparatively  calm,  but  was 
utterly  prostrated  in  strength,  and  seemed  near  her  end,  Ger 
trude  thought  it  best  not  to  enter  the  room  again;  and  sitting 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  193 

down  by  the  kitchen  stove,  pondered  in  her  mind  the  strange 
scene  she  had  witnessed.  Day  was  just  dawning  when  Mrs. 
Miller  came  to  tell  her  that  Nan  had  breathed  her  last. 

Gerty's  work  of  mercy,  forgiveness,  and  Christian  love  being 
thus  finished,  she  hastened  home  to  recruit  her  wasted  strength, 
and  fortify  herself,  as  she  best  might,  for  the  labor  and  suffer 
ing  yet  in  store  for  her. 

And  it  was  no  ordinary  strength  and  fortitude  that  she 
needed  to  sustain  her  through  a  period  such  as  persons  in  this 
world  are  often  called  upon  to  meet,  when  scenes  of  suffering, 
sickness,  and  death  follow  each  other  in  such  quick  succession 
that,  ere  one  shock  can  be  recovered  from,  and  composure  of 
mind  restored,  another  blow  comes  to  add  its  force  to  the 
already  overwhelming  torrent.  In  less  than  three  weeks  from 
the  time  of  Nan  Grant's  death,  Paul  Cooper  was  smitten  by 
the  destroyer's  hand,  and  after  a  brief  illness,  he,  too,  was  laid 
to  his  last  rest;  and  though  the  deepest  feelings  of  Gertrude's 
heart  were  not  in  either  case  fully  awakened,  it  was  no  slight 
call  upon  the  mental  and  physical  endurance  of  a  girl  of  eigh 
teen  to  bear  up  under  the  self-imposed  duties  occasioned  by 
each  event,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  her  mind  was  racked 
by  the  apprehension  of  a  new  and  far  more  intense  grief. 
Emily's  absence  was  also  a  sore  trial  to  her,  for  she  was  accus 
tomed  to  rely  upon  her  for  advice  and  counsel,  and  in  seasons 
of  peculiar  distress,  to  learn  patience  and  submission  from  one 
who  was  herself  a  living  exemplification  of  both  virtues.  Only 
one  letter  had  been  received  from  the  travellers,  and  that,  writ 
ten  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  contained  little  that  was  satisfactory.  It 
was  written  from  Havana,  where  they  were  boarding  in  a  house 
kept  by  an  American  lady,  and  crowded  with  visitors  from 
Boston,  New  York,  and  other  northern  cities. 

"It  ain't  so  very  pleasant,  after  all,  Gertrude,"  wrote  Mrs. 
Ellis,  "and  I  only  wish  we  were  safe  home  again;  and  not  on 
my  own  account,  either,  so  much  as  Emily's.  She  feels  kind 
of  strange  here;  and  no  wonder,  for  it 's  a  dreadful  uncomfort 
able  sort  of  a  place.  The  windows  have  no  glass  about  them, 
but  are  grated  just  like  a  prison;  arid  there  is  not  a  carpet  in 
the  house,  nor  a  fireplace,  though  sometimes  the  mornings  are 
quite  cold.  There  's  a  widcler  here,  with  a  brother  and  some 
nieces.  The  widcler  is  a  flaunting  kind  of  a  woman,  that  I 
begin  to  think,  if  you  '11  believe  it,  is  either  setting  her  cap  for 


194  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Mr.  Graham,  or  means  to  make  an  old  fool  of  him.  She  is 
one  of  your  loud-talking  women,  that  dress  up  a  good  deal,  and 
like  to  take  the  lead;  and  Mr.  Graham  is  just  silly  enough  to 
follow  after  her  party,  and  go  to  all  sorts  of  rides  and  excur 
sions;  it's  so  ridiculous,  — and  he  over  sixty-five  years  old! 
Emily  and  I  have  pretty  much  done  going  into  the  parlor,  for 
these  gay  folks  don't  take  any  sort  of  notice  of  us.  Emily 
doesn't  say  a  word,  or  complain  a  bit,  but  I  know  she  is  not 
happy  here,  and  would  be  glad  to  be  back  in  Boston;  and  so 
should  I,  if  it  wasn't  for  that  horrid  steamboat.  I  liked  to 
have  died  with  sea-sickness,  Gertrude,  coming  out;  and  I  dread 
going  home  so,  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Gertrude  wrote  frequently  to  Emily;  but  as  Miss  Graham 
was  dependent  upon  Mrs.  Ellis's  eyesight,  and  the  letters  must 
therefore  be  subject  to  her  scrutiny,  she  could  not  express  her 
innermost  thoughts  and  feelings  as  she  was  wont  to  do  in  con 
versation  with  her  sympathizing  and  indulgent  friend. 

Every  India  mail  brought  news  from  William  Sullivan,  who, 
prosperous  in  business,  and  rendered  happy,  even  in  his  exile, 
by  the  belief  that  the  friends  he  loved  best  were  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  fruits  of  his  exertions,  wrote  always  in  his  accus 
tomed  strain  of  cheerfulness. 

One  Sabbath  afternoon,  a  few  weeks  after  Mr.  Cooper's 
death,  found  Gertrude  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  the 
numerous  postmarks  upon  the  outside  of  which  proclaimed  from 
whence  it  came.  It  had  that  day  been  received,  and  Mrs.  Sul 
livan,  as  she  lay  stretched  upon  her  couch,  had  been  listening 
for  the  third  time  to  the  reading  of  its  contents.  The  bright 
hopes  expressed  by  her  son,  and  the  gay  tone  in  which  he 
wrote,  all  unconscious  as  he  yet  was  of  the  cloud  of  sorrow 
that  was  gathering  for  him,  formed  so  striking  a  contrast  to 
her  own  reflections,  that  she  lay  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  op 
pressed  with  an  unwonted  degree  of  sadness;  while  Gertrude, 
as  she  glanced  at  the  passage  in  which  Willie  dilated  upon  the 
"joy  of  once  more  clasping  in  his  arms  the  dear  little  mother 
whom  he  so  longed  to  see  again,'7  and  then  turned  her  gaze  upon 
the  wasted  form  and  faded  cheek  of  that  mother,  felt  an  inde 
scribable  chill  at  her  heart.  Dr.  Jeremy's  first  fears  were  all 
confirmed,  and,  her  disease  still  further  aggravated  by  the  anxiety 
and  agitation  which  attended  her  father's  sickness  and  death, 
Mrs.  Sullivan  was  rapidly  passing  away. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  195 

Whether  she  were  herself  aware  that  this  was  the  case, 
Gertrude  had  not  yet  been  able  to  determine.  She  had  never 
spoken  upon  the  subject,  or  intimated  in  any  manner  a  con 
viction  of  her  approaching  end;  and  Gertrude,  as  she  surveyed 
her  placid  countenance,  was  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  she 
was  yet  deceiving  herself  with  the  expectation  of  recovery. 

All  doubt  on  this  point  was  soon  removed;  for  after  remain 
ing  a  short  time  engaged  in  deep  thought,  or  perhaps  in  prayer, 
Mrs.  Sullivan  opened  her  eyes,  fixed  them  upon  her  young 
attendant,  and  said,  in  a  calm,  distinct  voice,  — 

"  Gertrude,  I  shall  never  see  Willie  again ! " 

Gertrude  made  no  reply. 

"I  wish  to  write  and  tell  him  so  myself,"  she  continued, 
"or  rather,  if  you  will  write  for  me,  as  you  have  done  so  many 
times  already,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  what  to  say ;  and  I  feel 
that  no  time  is  to  be  lost,  for  I  am  failing  fast,  and  may  not 
long  have  strength  enough  left  to  do  it.  It  will  devolve  upon 
you,  my  child,  to  let  him  know  when  all  is  over;  but  you 
have  had  too  many  sad  duties  already,  and  it  will  spare  you 
somewhat  to  have  me  prepare  him  to  hear  bad  news.  Will 
you  commence  a  letter  to-day  1 " 

"Certainly,  auntie,  if  you  think  it  best." 

"I  do,  Gerty.  What  you  wrote  by  the  last  mail  was  chiefly 
concerning  grandpa's  sickness  and  death;  and  there  was  nothing 
mentioned  which  would  be  likely  to  alarm  him  on  my  account, 
was  there  1 " 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"Then  it  is  quite  time  he  should  be  forewarned,  poor  boy! 
I  do  not  need  Dr.  Jeremy  to  tell  me  that  I  am  dying." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?"  asked  Gertrude,  as  she  went  to  her 
desk,  and  began  to  arrange  her  writing  materials. 

"No,  Gerty!  he  was  too  prude.nt  for  that;  but  I  told  him, 
and  he  did  not  contradict  me.  You  have  known  it  some  time, 
have  you  not  ? "  inquired  she,  gazing  earnestly  in  the  face  of 
Gertrude,  who  had  returned  to  the  couch,  and  seated  upon  the 
edge  of  it  was  bending  over  the  invalid,  and  smoothing  the 
hair  from  her  forehead. 

"Some  weeks,"  replied  Gertrude,  as  she  spoke  imprinting  a 
kiss  upon  the  pale  brow  of  the  sufferer. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me? " 

"  Why  should  I,   dear  auntie  ? "  said  Gertrude,   her  voice 


196  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

trembling  with  emotion.  "I  knew  the  Lord  could  never  call 
you  at  a  time  when  your  lamp  would  not  be  trimmed  and  burn 
ing." 

"Feebly,  it  burns  feebly!'7  said  the  humble  Christian. 

"Whose,  then,  is  bright,"  responded  Gertrude,  "if  yours  be 
dim?  Have  you  not,  for  years  past,  been  a  living  lesson  of 
piety  and  patience  ?  Unless  it  be  Emily,  auntie,  I  know  of  no 
one  who  seems  so  fit  for  heaven." 

"  0,  no,  Gerty !  I  am  a  sinful  creature,  full  of  weakness ; 
much  as  I  long  to  meet  my  Saviour,  my  earthly  heart  pines 
with  the  vain  desire  for  one  more  sight  of  my  boy,  and  all  my 
dreams  of  heaven  are  mingled  with  the  aching  regret  that  the 
one  blessing  I  most  craved  on  earth  has  been  denied  me." 

"  0  auntie ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  we  are  all  human ! 
Until  the  mortal  puts  on  immortality,  how  can  you  cease  to 
think  of  Willie,  and  long  for  his  presence  in  this  trying  hour  1 
It  cannot  be  a  sin,  —  that  which  is  so  natural ! " 

"I  do  not  know,  Gerty;  perhaps  it  is  not;  and  if  it  be,  I 
trust  before  I  go  hence,  I  shall  be  blessed  with  a  spirit  of  per 
fect  submission,  that  will  atone  for  the  occasional  murmuring 
of  a  mother's  heart !  Read  to  me,  my  dear,  some  holy  words 
of  comfort;  you  always  seem  to  open  the  good  book  at  the  pas 
sage  I  most  need.  It  is  sinful,  indeed,  in  me,  Gertrude,  to  in 
dulge  the  least  repining,  blessed  as  I  am  in  the  love  and  care 
of  one  who  is  dear  to  me  as  a  daughter ! " 

Gertrude  took  her  Bible,  and  opening  it  at  the  Gospel  of  St. 
Mark,  her  eye  fell  at  once  upon  the  account  of  our  Saviour's 
agony  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane.  She  rightly  believed  that 
nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  state  of 
mind  than  the  touching  description  of  the  struggle  of  our  Lord's 
humanity ;  nothing  more  likely  to  soothe  her  spirit,  and  recon 
cile  her  to  the  occasional  rebellion  of  her  own  mortal  nature, 
than  the  evident  contest  of  the  human  with  the  divine  so  thrill- 
ingly  narrated  by  the  disciple;  and  that  nothing  could  be  more 
inspiring  than  the  example  of  that  holy  Son  of  God,  who  ever 
to  His  thrice  repeated  prayer  that,  if  possible,  the  cup  might 
pass  from  him,  added  the  pious  ejaculation,  "Thy  will,  not 
mine,  be  done."  Without  hesitation,  therefore,  she  read  what 
first  met  her  glance,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  the 
words  were  not  without  effect;  for  when  she  had  finished,  she 
observed  that  as  Mrs.  Sullivan  lay  still  and  calm  upon  her 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  197 

couch,  her  lips  seemed  to  be  repeating  the  Saviour's  prayer. 
Not  wishing  to  disturb  her  meditations,  Gertrude  made  no  re 
ference  to  the  proposed  letter  to  Willie,  but  sat  in  perfect 
silence,  and  about  half  an  hour  afterward  Mrs.  Sullivan  fell 
asleep.  It  was  a  gentle,  quiet  slumber,  and  Gertrude  sat  and 
watched  with  pleasure  the  peaceful,  happy  expression  of  her 
features.  Darkness  had  come  on  before  she  awoke,  and  so 
shrouded  the  room  that  Gertrude,  who  still  sat  there,  was  in 
visible  in  the  gloom.  She  started  on  hearing  her  name,  and 
hastily  lighting  a  candle,  approached  the  couch. 

"0  Gertrude!'7  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "I  have  had  such  a 
beautiful  dream!  Sit  down  by  me,  my  dear,  and  let  me  tell 
it  to  you;  it  could  not  have  been  more  vivid,  if  it  had  all  been 
reality.  I  thought  I  was  sailing  rapidly  through  the  air,  arid 
for  some  time  I  seemed  to  float  on  and  on,  over  clouds  and 
among  bright  stars.  The  motion  was  so  gentle  that  I  did  not 
grow  weary,  though  in  my  journey  I  travelled  over  land  and 
sea.  At  last  I  saw  beneath  me  a  beautiful  city,  with  churches, 
towers,  monuments,  and  throngs  of  gay  people  moving  in  every 
direction.  As  I  drew  nearer,  I  could  distinguish  the  faces  of 
those  numerous  men  and  women,  and  among  them,  in  a  crowded 
street,  there  was  one  who  looked  like  Willie.  I  followed  him, 
and  soon  felt  sure  it  was  he.  He  looked  older  than  when  we 
saw  him  last,  and  much  as  I  have  always  imagined  him,  since 
the  descriptions  he  has  given  in  his  letters  of  the  change  that 
has  taken  place  in  his  appearance.  I  followed  him  through 
several  streets,  and  at  last  he  turned  into  a  fine,  large  building, 
which  stood  near  the  centre  of  the  city.  I  went  in  also.  We 
passed  through  large  halls  and  beautifully  furnished  rooms,  and 
at  last  stood  in  a  dining-saloon,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a 
table  covered  with  bottles,  glasses,  arid  the  remains  of  a  rich 
dessert,  such  as  I  never  saw  before.  There  was  a  group  of 
young  men  round  the  table,  all  well  dressed,  and  some  of  them 
fine  looking,  so  that  at  first  I  was  quite  charmed  with  their 
appearance.  I  seemed,  however,  to  have  a  strange  power  of 
looking  into  their  hearts,  and  detecting  all  the  evil  there  was 
there.  One  had  a  very  bright,  intelligent  face,  and  might  have 
been  thought  a  man  of  talent  —  and  so  he  was ;  but  I  could  see 
better  than  people  usually  can,  and  I  perceived,  by  a  sort  of 
instinct,  that  all  his  mind  and  genius  were  converted  into  a 
means  of  duping  and  deceiving  those  who  were  so  foolish  or 


198  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

so  ignorant  as  to  be  ensnared;  and  in  a  corner  of  his  pocket  I 
knew  he  had  a  pair  of  loaded  dice. 

"Another  seemed  by  his  wit  and  drollery  to  be  the  charm  of 
the  company;  but  I  could  detect  marks  of  intoxication,  and 
felt  a  certainty  that  in  less  than  an  hour  he  would  cease  to  be 
the  master  of  his  own  actions. 

"  A  third  was  making  a  vain  attempt  to  look  happy ;  but  his 
very  soul  was  bared  to  my  searching  gaze,  and  I  was  aware  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  the  day  before  lost  at  the  gaming-table  all 
his  own  and  a  part  of  his  employer's  money,  and  was  tortured 
with  anxiety  lest  he  might  not  this  evening  be  fortunate  enough 
to  win  it  back. 

"There  were  many  others  present,  and  all,  more  or  less  sunk 
in  dissipation,  had  reached  various  stages  on  the  road  to  ruin. 
Their  faces,  however,  looked  animated  and  gay,  and  as  Willie 
glanced  from  one  to  another,  he  seemed  pleased  and  attracted. 

"One  of  them  offered  him  a  seat  at  the  table,  and  all  urged 
him  to  take  it.  He  did  so,  and  the  young  man  at  his  right  filled 
a  glass  with  bright  wine  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  hesitated, 
then  took  it  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  Just  then  I  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder.  He  turned,  saw  me,  and  instantly  the  glass 
fell  from  his  hand  and  was  broken  into  a  thousand  pieces.  .1 
beckoned,  and  he  immediately  rose  and  followed  me.  The  gay 
circle  he  had  left  called  loudly  upon  him  to  return;  one  of 
them  even  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm  and  tried  to  detain  him; 
but  he  would  not  listen  or  stay  —  he  shook  off  the  hand  that 
would  have  held  him,  and  we  went  on.  Before  we  had  got 
outside  the  building,  the  man  whom  I  had  first  noticed,  and 
whom  I  knew  to  be  the  most  artful  of  the  company,  came  out 
from  a  room  near  the  door,  which  he  had  reached  by  some 
other  direction,  and  approaching  Willie,  whispered  in  his  ear. 
Wrillie  faltered,  turned,  and  would  perhaps  have  gone  back; 
but  I  placed  myself  in  front  of  him,  held  up  my  finger  mena 
cingly,  and  shook  my  head.  He  hesitated  no  longer,  but  fling 
ing  aside  the  tempter,  rushed  out  of  the  door,  and  was  down 
the  long  flight  of  steps  before  I  could  overtake  him.  I  seemed, 
however,  to  move  with  great  rapidity,  and  soon  found  myself 
taking  the  lead,  and  guiding  my  son  through  the  intricate, 
crowded  streets  of  the  city.  Many  were  the  adventures  we 
encountered,  many  the  snares  we  found  laid  for  the  unwary  in 
every  direction.  More  than  once  my  watchful  eye  saved  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  199 

thoughtless  boy  by  my  side  from  some  pitfall  or  danger,  into 
which,  without  me,  he  would  have  surely  fallen.  Occasion 
ally  I  lost  sight  of  him,  and  was  obliged  to  turn  back;  now 
he  had  been  separated  from  me  by  the  crowd,  and  consequently 
missed  his  way,  and  now  he  had  purposely  lingered  to  witness 
or  join  in  the  amusements  of  the  gay  populace.  Each  time, 
however,  he  listened  to  my  warning  voice,  and  we  went  on  in 
safety. 

"At  last,  however,  in  passing  through  a  brilliantly  lighted 
street,  —  for  it  was  now  evening,  —  I  suddenly  observed  that 
he  was  absent  from  my  side.  I  went  backwards  and  forwards, 
but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  For  an  hour  I  hunted  the 
streets,  and  called  him  by  name ;  but  there  was  no  answer.  I 
then  unfolded  my  wings,  and  soaring  high  above  the  crowded 
town,  surveyed  the  whole,  hoping  that  in  that  one  glance  I 
might,  as  I  had  at  first  done,  detect  my  boy. 

"  I  was  not  disappointed.  In  a  gorgeous  hall,  dazzlingly  lit, 
and  filled  with  gayety  and  fashion,  I  beheld  Willie.  A  bril 
liant  young  creature  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  I  saw  into 
her  heart,  and  knew  that  she  was  not  blind  to  his  beauty  or 
insensible  to  his  attractions.  But,  0 !  I  trembled  for  him  now ! 
She  was  lovely  and  rich,  and  it  was  evident  to  me,  from  the 
elegance  of  her  dress  and  the  attention  she  attracted,  that  she 
was  also  fashionable  and  admired.  I  saw  into  her  soul,  how 
ever,  and  she  was  vain,  proud,  cold  hearted,  and  worldly ;  and 
if  she  loved  Willie,  it  was  his  beauty,  his  winning  manners, 
and  his  smile  that  pleased  her  —  not  his  noble  nature,  which 
she  knew  not  how  to  prize.  As  they  promenaded  through  the 
hall,  and  she,  whom  crowds  were  praising,  gave  all  her  time 
and  thoughts  to  him,  I,  descending  .in  an  invisible  shape,  and 
standing  by  his  side,  touched  his  shoulder,  as  I  had  done  be 
fore.  He  looked  around,  but  before  he  could  see  his  mother's 
face,  the  siren's  voice  attracted  all  his  attention.  Again  and 
again  I  endeavored  to  win  him  away;  but  he  heard  me  not. 
At  length  she  spoke  some  word  that  betrayed  to  my  high- 
minded  boy  the  folly  and  selfishness  of  her  worldly  soul.  I 
seized  the  moment  when  she  had  thus  weakened  her  hold 
upon  him,  and  clasping  him  in  my  arms,  spread  my  wings  and 
soared  far,  far  away,  bearing  with  me  the  prize  I  had  toiled 
after  and  won.  As  we  rose  into  the  air,  my  manly  son  became 
in  my  encircling  arms  a  child  again,  and  there  rested  on  my 


200  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

bosom  the  same  little  head,  with  its  soft,  silken  curls,  that  had 
nestled  there  in  infancy.  Back  we  flew,  over  sea  and  land,  and 
paused  not  until  on  a  soft,  grassy  slope,  under  the  shade  of 
green  trees,  I  thought  I  saw  my  darling  Gerty,  and  was  flying 
to  lay  my  precious  boy  at  her  feet,  when  I  awoke,  pronouncing 
your  name. 

"And  now,  Gertrude,  the  bitterness  of  the  cup  I  am  called 
upon  to  drink  is  passed  away.  A  blessed  angel  has  indeed 
ministered  unto  me.  I  no  longer  wish  to  see  my  son  again  on 
earth,  for  I  am  persuaded  that  my  departure  is  in  perfect  ac 
cordance  with  the  schemes  of  a  merciful  Providence.  I  now 
believe  that  Willie's  living  mother  might  be  powerless  to  turn 
him  from  temptation  and  evil ;  but  the  spirit  of  that  mother 
will  be  mighty  still,  and  in  the  thought  that  she,  in  her  home 
beyond  the  skies,  is  ever  watching  around  his  path,  and  striv 
ing  to  lead  him  in  the  straight  and  narrow  way,  he  may  find 
a  truer  shield  from  danger,  a  firmer  rest  to  his  tempted  soul, 
than  she  could  have  been  while  yet  on  earth.  Now,  0-my 
Father,  I  can  say,  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  *  Thy  will, 
not  mine,  be  done ! ' ; 

From  this  time  until  her  death,  which  took  place  about  a 
month  afterward,  Mrs.  Sullivan's  mind  remained  in  a  state  of 
perfect  resignation  and  tranquillity.  As  she  said,  the  last  pang 
had  lost  its  bitterness.  In  the  letter  which  she  dictated  to 
Willie,  she  expressed  her  perfect  trust  in  the  goodness  and 
wisdom  of  Providence,  and  exhorted  him  to  cherish  the  same 
submissive  love  for  the  All-wise.  She  reminded  him  of  the 
early  lessons  she  had  taught  him,  the  piety  and  self-command 
which  she  had  inculcated,  and  made  it  her  dying  prayer  that 
her  influence  might  be  increased,  rather  than  diminished,  and 
her  presence  felt  to  be  a  continual  reality.  She  gave  the  im 
portant  caution  to  one  who  had  faithfully  struggled  with  adver 
sity  to  beware  of  the  dangers  and  snares  which  attend  prosperity, 
and  besought  him  never  to  discredit  or  disgrace  his  childhood's 
training. 

After  Gertrude  had  folded  the  letter,  which  she  supposed 
completed,  and  left  the  house  to  attend  to  those  duties  in 
school  which  she  still  continued  regularly  to  perform,  Mrs. 
Sullivan  reopened  the  nearly  covered  sheet,  and  with  her  own 
feeble  and  trembling  hand  recounted  the  disinterested,  patient, 
loving  devotion  of  Gertrude.  "So  long,"  said,  she,  "my  son, 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  201 

as  you  cherish  in  your  heart  the  memory  of  your  grandfather 
and  mother,  cease  not  to  bestow  all  the-  gratitude  of  which  that 
heart  is  capable  upon  one  whose  praises  my  hand  is  too  feeble 
to  portray." 

So  slow  and  gradual  was  the  decline  of  Mrs.  Sullivan,  that 
her  death  at  last  came  as  an  unexpected  blow  to  Gertrude,  who, 
though  she  saw  the  ravages  of  disease,  could  not  realize  that  a 
termination  must  come  to  their  work. 

In  the  dead  hours  of  the  night,  with  no  one  to  sustain  and 
encourage  her  but  the  frightened  and  trembling  Jane,  did  she 
watch  the  departing  spirit  of  her  much  loved  friend.  "Are 
you  afraid  to  see  me  die,  Gertrude  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
about  an  hour  before  her  death.  On  Gertrude's  answering 
that  she  was  not,  "Then  turn  me  a  little  towards  you,"  said 
she,  "that  your  face,  my  darling,  may  be  the  last  to  me  of 
earth." 

It  was  done,  and  with  her  hand  locked  fast  in  Gertrude's, 
and  a  look  that  spoke  of  the  deepest  affection,  she  expired. 


202  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

But,  whatsoe'er  the  weal  or  woe 
That  Heaven  across  her  lot  might  throw, 
Full  well  her  Christian  spirit  knew 
Its  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

NOT  until  her  work  of  love  was  thus  ended  did  Gertrude 
become  conscious  that  the  long  continuance  of  her  labors  by 
night  and  day  had  worn  upon  her  frame  and  utterly  exhausted 
her  strength.  For  a  week  after  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  laid  in  her 
grave,  Dr.  Jeremy  was  seriously  apprehensive  of  a  severe  ill 
ness  for  Gertrude.  But  after  struggling  with  her  dangerous 
symptoms  for  several  days,  she  rallied,  and  though  still  pale 
and  worn  by  care  and  anxiety,  was  able  to  resume  her  classes 
at  school,  and  make  arrangements  for  providing  herself  with 
another  home. 

Several  homes  had  been  already  offered  to  her,  several  urgent 
invitations  given,  with  a  warmth  and  cordiality  which  made 
it  difficult  to  decline  their  acceptance;  but  Gertrude,  though 
deeply  touched  by  the  kindness  thus  manifested  towards  her  in 
her  loneliness  and  desolation,  preferred  to  abide  by  her  previ 
ously  formed  resolution  to  seek  for  herself  a  permanent  boarding- 
place;  and  when  the  grounds  on  which  she  based  her  decision 
were  understood  by  her  friends,  they  approved  her  course,  ceased 
to  importune  her,  and  manifested  a  sincere  wish  to  be  of  service, 
by  lending  their  aid  to  the  furtherance  of  her  plans. 

Mrs.  Jeremy  was  at  first  disposed  to  feel  hurt  and  wounded 
by  Gertrude's  refusal  to  come  to  them  without  delay,  and  con 
sider  herself  established  for  any  length  of  time  that  she  chose 
to  remain ;  and  the  doctor  himself  was  so  peremptory  with  his 
"Come,  Gertrude,  come  right  home  with  us  —  don't  say  a 
word !  "  that  she  was  afraid  lest,  in  her  weak  state  of  health, 
she  should  be  actually  carried  off,  without  a  chance  to  remon 
strate.  But  after  he  had  taken  upon  himself  to  give  Jane 
orders  about  packing  her  clothes  and  sending  them  after  her, 
and  then  locking  up  the  house  and  going  home  herself,  he  gave 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  203 

Gertrude  an  opportunity  to  expostulate,  and  present  her  reasons 
for  wishing  to  decline  the  generous  proposal. 

All  her  reasoning  upon  general  principles,  however,  proved 
insufficient  to  convince  the  warm-hearted  couple.  "  It  was  all 
nonsense  about  independent  position.  She  would  he  perfectly 
independent  with  them,  and  her  company  would  be  such  a 
pleasure  that  she  need  feel  no  hesitation  in  accepting  their  offer, 
and  might  be  sure  she  would  herself  be  conferring  a  favor,  in 
stead  of  being  the  party  obliged."  At  last  she  was  compelled 
to  make  use  of  an  argument  which  had  greatly  influenced  her 
own  mind,  and  would,  she  felt  sure,  carry  no  little  weight  with 
it  in  the  doctor's  estimation. 

"Dr.  Jeremy,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you  will  not  condemn  in 
me  a  motive  which  has,  I  confess,  strengthened  my  firmness  in 
this  matter.  I  should  be  unwilling  to  mention  it,  if  I  did  not 
know  that  you  are  so  far  acquainted  with  the  state  of  affairs 
between  Mr.  Graham  and  myself  as  to  understand,  and  perhaps 
in  some  degree  sympathize  with,  my  feelings.  You  know  that 
he  was  opposed  to  my  leaving  them  and  remaining  here  this 
winter,  and  must  suspect  that,  when  we  parted,  there  was  not 
a  perfectly  good  understanding  between  us.  He  hinted  that 
I  should  never  be  able  to  support  myself,  and  should  be  driven 
to  a  life  of  dependence;  and  since  the  salary  which  I  receive 
from  Mr.  W.  is  sufficient  for  all  my  wants,  I  am  anxious  to  be 
so  situated,  on  Mr.  Graham's  return,  that  he  will  perceive  that 
my  assurance,  or  boast  (if  I  must  call  it  so),  that  I  could  earn 
my  own  living,  was  not  without  foundation." 

"So  Graham  thought  that,  without  his  sustaining  power, 
you  would  soon  come  to  beggary,  did  he  ?  With  your  talents, 
too!  That's  just  like  him!" 

"0  no,  no!"  replied  Gertrude,  "I  did  not  say  that;  but  I 
seemed  to  him  a  mere  child,  and  he  did  not  realize  that,  in 
giving  me  an  education,  he  had,  as  it  were,  paid  my  expenses 
in  advance.  It  was  very  natural  he  should  distrust  my  capa 
city  ;  he  had  never  seen  me  compelled  to  exert  myself. " 

"I  understand  —  I  understand,"  said  the  doctor.  "He 
thought  you  would  be  glad  enough  to  come  back  to  them  — 
yes,  yes,  just  like  him!" 

"Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "I  don't  believe  he  thought 
any  such  thing.  He  was  provoked,  and  did  n't  mind  what  he 
said.  Ten  to  one  he  will  never  think  of  it  again,  and  it  seems 


204  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

to  me  it  is  only  a  kind  of  pride  in  Gertrude  to  care  anything 
about  it." 

"I  don't  know  that,  wife,"  said  the  doctor.  "If  it  is  pride, 
it's  an  honorable  pride,  that  I  like;  and  I  am  not  sure  but, 
if  I  were  in  Gertrude's  place,  I  should  feel  just  as  she  does; 
so  I  sha'n't  urge  her  to  do  any  other  ways  than  she  proposes. 
She  can  have  a  boarding-place  and  yet  spend  a  good  share 
of  her  time  with  us,  what  with  running  in  and  out,  coming  to 
spend  days,  and  so  on;  and  she  doesn't  need  to  be  told  that, 
in  case  of  any  sickness  or  trouble,  our  doors  are  always  open 
to  her." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "and  if  you  feel  set  about 
it,  Gerty  dear,  I  am  sure  I  shall  want  you  to  do  whatever 
pleases  you  best;  but  one  thing  I  do  insist  on,  and  that  is,  that 
you  leave  this  house,  which  must  look  dreary  enough  to  you 
now,  this  very  day,  go  home  with  me,  and  stay  until  you  get 
recruited." 

Gertrude,  gladly  consenting  to  a  short  visit,  compromised 
the  matter  by  accompanying  them  without  delay ;  and  it  was 
chiefly  owing  to  the  doctor's  persevering  skill  and  care  bestowed 
upon  his  young  guest,  and  the  kind  and  motherly  nursing  of 
Mrs.  Jeremy,  that  she  escaped  the  illness  which  had  so  severely 
threatened  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.,  who  had  felt  great  sympathy  for  Ger 
trude,  in  consequence  of  the  acquaintance  they  had  had  with 
the  trying  nature  of  her  winter's  experience,  pressed  her  to 
come  to  their  house,  and  remain  until  the  return  of  Mr.  Gra 
ham  and  Emily;  but  on  being  assured  by  her  that  she  was 
quite  unaware  of  the  period  of  their  absence,  and  should  not 
probably  reside  with  them  for  the  future,  they  were  satisfied 
that  she  acted  with  wisdom  and  judgment  in  at  once  providing 
herself  with  an  independent  situation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  who  had  been  constant  in  their  atten 
tions  both  to  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  Gertrude,  and  were  the  only 
persons,  except  the  physician,  who  had  been  admitted  to  the 
sick-room  of  the  invalid,  felt  that  they  had  a  peculiar  claim 
to  the  guardianship  and  care  of  the  doubly  orphaned  girl,  and 
•were  not  slow  to  urge  upon  her  to  become  a  member  of  their 
household,  and  accept  of  their  protection,  limiting  their  invita 
tion,  as  the  W.'s  had  done,  to  the  time  when  Emily  should 
be  back  from  the  south.  Mr.  Arnold's  family,  however,  being 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  205 

large,  and  his  house  and  salary  small  in  proportion,  true  bene 
volence  alone  prompted  this  proposal;  and  on  Gertrude's  ac 
quainting  his  economical  and  prudent  wife  with  the  ample 
means  she  enjoyed  from  her  own  exertions,  and  the  decision 
she  had  formed  of  procuring  an  independent  home,  she  received 
the  warm  approbation  of  both,  and  found  in  the  latter  an  excel 
lent  adviser  and  assistant. 

Mrs.  Arnold  had  a  widowed  sister,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
adding  to  her  moderate  income  by  receiving  into  her  family, 
as  boarders,  a  few  young  ladies  who  came  to  the  city  for  pur 
poses  of  education.  Gertrude  did  not  know  this  lady  person 
ally,  but  had  heard  her  warmly  praised;  and  she  indulged  the 
hope  that  through  her  friend,  the  clergyman's  wife,  she  might 
obtain  with  her  an  agreeable  and  not  too  expensive  residence. 
In  this  she  was  not  disappointed.  Mrs.  Warren  had  fortu 
nately  vacant  at  this  time  a  large  and  cheerful  front  chamber; 
and  Mrs.  Arnold  having  recommended  Gertrude  in  the  warmest 
manner,  suitable  terms  were  agreed  upon,  and  the  room  imme 
diately  placed  at  her  disposal.  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  bequeathed 
to  her  all  her  furniture,  a  part  of  which  had  lately  been  pur 
chased,  and  was,  in  accordance  with  Willie's  injunctions,  most 
excellent,  both  in  material  and  workmanship;  and  Mrs.  Arnold 
and  her  two  eldest  daughters  insisted  that,  in  consideration  of 
her  recent  fatigue  and  bereavement,  she  should  consent  to 
attend  only  to  her  school  duties,  and  leave  to  them  the  task  of 
furnishing  her  room  with  such  articles  as  she  preferred  to  have 
placed  there,  and  superintending  the  packing  away  of  all  other 
movables,  for  Gertrude  was  unwilling  that  anything  should  be 
sold.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  be  thus  spared  the  cruel  trial  of 
seeing  the  house  her  lost  friend  had  taken  so  much  pleasure  and 
pride  in  stripped  and  left  desolate,  and  though,  on  first  enter 
ing  her  apartment  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  a  deep  sadness  crept  into 
her  heart  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  furniture,  she  could  not 
but  think,  as  she  observed  the  neatness,  care,  and  taste  with 
which  everything  had  been  arranged  for  her  reception,  that  it 
would  be  a  sin  to  repine  and  call  one's  self  wretched  and  alone 
in  a  world  which  contained  hearts  so  quick  to  feel,  and  hands 
so  ready  to  labor,  as  those  that  had  interested  themselves  for 
her. 

On  entering  the  dining-room  the  first  evening  after  she  took 
up  her  residence  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  she  expected  to  meet  only 


206  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

strangers  at  the  tea  table,  but  was  agreeably  disappointed  at 
the  sight  of  Fanny  Bruce,  who,  left  in  Boston  while  her  mother 
and  brother  were  spending  the  winter  in  travelling,  had  now 
been  several  weeks  an  inmate  of  Mrs.  Warren's  house.  Fanny 
was  a  schoolgirl,  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  and,  having 
for  some  summers  past  been  a  near  neighbor  to  Gertrude,  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  her  frequently  at  Mr.  Graham's, 
had  sometimes  begged  flowers  from  her,  borrowed  books,  and 
obtained  assistance  in  her  fancy  work.  She  admired  Gertrude 
exceedingly;  had  hailed  with  great  delight  the  prospect  of 
knowing  her  better,  as  she  hoped  to  do  at  Mrs.  Warren's;  and 
when  she  met  the  gaze  of  her  large  dark  eyes,  and  saw  a  smile 
of  pleasure  overspread  her  countenance  at  the  sight  of  a  familiar 
face,  she  felt  emboldened  to  come  forward,  shake  hands,  and 
beg  that  Miss  Flint  would  sit  next  her  at  the  table. 

Fanny  Bruce  was  a  girl  of  good  disposition  and  warm  heart, 
but  she  had  been  much  neglected  by  her  mother,  whose  chief 
pride  was  in  her  son,  the  same  Ben  of  whom  we  have  previ 
ously  spoken.  She  had  often  been  left  behind  in  some  boarding- 
house,  while  her  pleasure-loving  mother  and  indolent  brother 
passed  their  time  in  journeying;  she  had  not  always  been  so 
fortunately  situated  as  at  present.  A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  want 
of  sympathy  in  any  of  her  pursuits,  had  been  a  source  of  great 
unhappiness  to  the  poor  child,  who  labored  under  the  painful 
consciousness  that  but  little  interest  was  felt  by  any  one  in  her 
improvement  or  happiness. 

Gertrude  had  not  been  long  at  Mrs.  Warren's  before  she  ob 
served  that  Fanny  occupied  an  isolated  position  in  the  family. 
She  was  a  few  years  younger  than  her  companions,  three  dressy 
misses,  who  could  not  condescend  to  admit  her  into  their 
clique;  and  Mrs.  Warren's  time  was  so  much  engrossed  by 
household  duties  that  she  took  but  little  notice  of  her.  Her 
apparent  loneliness  could  not  fail  to  excite  the  compassion  of 
one  who  was  herself  suffering  from  recent  sorrow  and  bereave 
ment;  and  although  the  quiet  and  privacy  of  her  own  room 
were  at  this  time  grateful  to  Gertrude's  feelings,  pity  for  poor 
Fanny  induced  her  to  invite  her  frequently  to  come  and  sit 
with  her,  and  she  often  so  far  forgot  her  own  griefs  as  to  exert 
herself  in  providing  entertainment  for  her  young  visitor,  who, 
on  her  part,  considered  it  privilege  enough  to  share  Gertrude's 
retirement,  read  her  books,  and  feel  confident  of  her  friend- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  207 

ship.  During  the  month  of  March,  which  was  unusually 
stormy,  Fanny  spent  almost  every  evening  with  Gertrude ;  and 
she,  who  at  first  felt  that  she  was  making  a  sacrifice  of  her 
own  comfort  and  ease  by  giving  another  such  constant  access  to 
her  apartment,  came  at  last  to  realize  the  force  of  Uncle  True's 
prophecy,  that  in  her  efforts  for  the  happiness  of  others,  she 
would  at  last  find  her  own;  for  Fanny's  lively  and  often  amus 
ing  conversation  drew  Gertrude  from  the  contemplation  of  her 
trials,  and  the  interest  and  affection  she  awakened  saved  her 
from  the  painful  consciousness  of  her  solitary  situation. 

April  arrived,  and  still  no  further  news  from  Emily.  Ger 
trude's  heart  ached  with  a  vain  longing  to  once  more  pour  out 
her  griefs  on  the  bosom  of  that  dear  friend,  and  find  in  her 
consolation,  encouragement,  and  support.  She  longed  to  tell 
her  how  many  times  during  the  winter  she  had  sighed  for  the 
gentle  touch  of  the  soft  hand  which  was  wont  to  rest  so  lov 
ingly  on  her  head,  the  sound  of  that  sweet  voice  whose  very 
tones  were  comforting.  For  some  time  Gertrude  wrote  regu 
larly,  but  of  late  she  had  not  known  where  to  direct  her  let 
ters;  and  since  Mrs.  Sullivan's  death  there  had  been  no  com 
munication  between  her  and  the  travellers.  She  was  sitting 
at  her  window  one  evening,  thinking  of  that  group  of  friends 
whom  she  had  loved  with  a  daughter's  and  a  sister's  love,  and 
who  were  now  separated  from  her  by  distance,  or  that  greater 
barrier,  death,  when  she  was  summoned  below  stairs  to  see  Mr. 
Arnold  and  his  daughter  Anne. 

After  the  usual  civilities  and  inquiries,  Miss  Arnold  turned 
to  Gertrude  and  said,  "Of  course  you  have  heard  the  news, 
Gertrude  ? " 

"No,"  replied  Gertrude,  "I  have  heard  nothing  special." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Arnold,  "have  you  not  heard  of 
Mr.  Graham's  marriage? " 

Gertrude  started  up  in  surprise.  "  Do  you  really  mean  so, 
Mr.  Arnold  ?  Mr.  Graham  married !  When  ?  To  whom  1  " 

"To  the  widow  Holbrook,  a  sister-in-law  of  Mr.  Clinton's; 
she  has  been  staying  at  Havana  with  a  party  from  the  north, 
and  the  Grahams  met  her  there." 

"But,  Gertrude,"  asked  Miss  Arnold,  "how  does  it  happen 
you  had  not  heard  of  it  ?  It  is  in  all  the  newspapers,  —  '  Mar 
ried  in  New  Orleans,  J.  H.  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Boston,  to  Mrs. 
Somebody  or  other  Holbrook. '  " 


208  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

"I  have  not  seen  a  newspaper  for  a  day  or  two,"  replied 
Gertrude. 

"And  Miss  Graham's  blindness,  I  suppose,  prevents  her  writ 
ing,"  said  Anne;  "but  I  should  have  thought  Mr.  Graham 
would  have  sent  wedding  compliments." 

Gertrude  made  no  reply,  and  Miss  Arnold  continued,  laugh 
ingly,  "I  suppose  his  bride  engrosses  all  his  attention." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  this  Mrs.  Holbrook  ? "  asked 
Gertrude. 

"Not  much,"  answered  Mr.  Arnold.  "I  have  seen  her 
occasionally  at  Mr.  Clinton's.  She  is  a  handsome,  showy 
woman,  fond  of  society,  I  should  think." 

"I  have  seen  her  very  often,"  said  Anne.  "She  is  a  coarse, 
noisy,  dashing  person,  — just  the  one  to  make  Miss  Emily 
miserable. " 

Gertrude  looked  distressed,  and  Mr.  Arnold  glanced  reprov 
ingly  at  his  daughter. 

"Anne,"  said  he,  "are  you  sure  you  speak  advisedly1?" 

"Belle  Clinton  is  my  authority,  father.  I  only  judge  from 
what  I  used  to  hear  her  say  at  school  about  her  Aunt  Bella, 
as  she  always  used  to  call  her." 

"  Did  Isabel  represent  her  aunt  so  unfavorably  ?  " 

"Not  intentionally,"  replied  Anne;  "she  meant  the  greatest 
praise,  but  I  never  liked  anything  she  told  us  about  her." 

"We  will  not  condemn  her  until  we  can  decide  upon  ac 
quaintance,"  said  Mr.  Arnold  mildly;  "perhaps  she  will  prove 
the  very  reverse  of  what  you  suppose  her." 

"Can  you  tell  me  anything  concerning  Emily?"  asked  Ger 
trude,  "  and  whether  Mr.  Graham  is  soon  to  return  1 " 

"Nothing,"  said  Miss  Arnold.  "I  have  seen  only  the  no 
tice  in  the  papers.  When  did  you  hear  from  them  yourself  1 " 

Gertrude  mentioned  the  date  of  her  letter  from  Mrs.  Ellis, 
the  account  she  had  given  of  a  gay  party  from  the  north,  and 
suggested  the  probability  that  the  present  Mrs.  Graham  was  the 
widow  she  had  described. 

"The  same,  undoubtedly,"  said  Mr.  Arnold. 

Their  knowledge  of  facts  was  so  slight,  however,  that  little 
remained  to  be  said  concerning  the  marriage,  and  other  topics 
of  conversation  were  introduced.  But  Gertrude  found  it  im 
possible  to  give  her  thoughts  to  any  other  subject;  the  matter 
was  one  of  such  vital  importance  to  Emily,  that  her  mind  con- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  209 

stantly  recurred  to  it,  and  she  found  it  difficult  to  keep  pace 
with  Anne  Arnold's  rapidly  flowing  words  and  ideas.  The 
necessity  which  at  last  arose  of  replying  to  a  question  which 
she  had  not  at  all  understood  was  fortunately  obviated  by  the 
sudden  entrance  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy.  The  former  held 
in  his  hand  a  sealed  letter,  directed  to  Gertrude,  in  the  hand 
writing  of  Mr.  Graham;  and  as  he  handed  it  to  her,  he  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  looking  at  Anne  Arnold,  exclaimed,  "Now,  Miss 
Anne,  we  shall  hear  all  about  these  famous  nuptials ! " 

Finding  her  visitors  thus  eager  to  learn  the  contents  of  her 
letter,  Gertrude  dispensed  with  ceremony,  broke  the  seal,  and 
hastily  perused  its  contents. 

The  envelope  contained  two  or  three  pages  closely  written 
by  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  also  a  somewhat  lengthy  note  from  Mr. 
Graham.  Surprised  as  Gertrude  was  at  any  communication 
from  one  who  had  parted  from  her  in  anger,  her  strongest 
desire  was  to  hear  particularly  from  Emily,  and  she  therefore 
gave  the  preference  to  the  housekeeper's  document,  that  being 
most  likely  to  contain  the  desired  information.  It  ran  as 
follows :  — 

NEW  YORK,  March  31,  1852. 

DEAR  GERTRUDE,  —  As  there  were  plenty  of  Boston  folks 
at  the  wedding,  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  before  this  of  Mr. 
Graham's  marriage.  He  married  the  widder  Holbrook,  the 
same  I  wrote  you  about.  She  was  determined  to  have  him, 
and  she  's  got  him.  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  he  's  got  the  worst 
of  the  bargain.  He  likes  a  quiet  life,  and  he  's  lost  his  chance 
of  that, — poor  man!  —  for  she's  the  greatest  hand  for  com 
pany  that  ever  I  saw.  She  followed  Mr.  Graham  up  pretty 
well  at  Havana,  but  I  guess  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  didn't 
really  mean  to  have  her.  When  we  got  to  New  Orleans,  how 
ever,  she  was  there;  and  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  she  car 
ried  her  point,  and  married  him.  Emily  behaved  beautifully; 
she  never  said  a  word  against  it,  and  always  treated  the  widder 
as  pleasantly  as  could  be;  but  dear  me!  how  will  our  Emily 
get  along  with  so  many  young  folks  as  there  are  about  all  the 
time  now,  and  so  much  noise  and  confusion  ?  For  my  part,  I 
ain't  used  to  it,  and  don't  pretend  that  I  think  it 's  agreeable. 
The  new  lady  is  civil  enough  to  me,  now  she  's  married.  I 
dare  say  she  thinks  it  stands  her  in  hand,  as  long  as  she  's  one 


210  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

of  the  family,  and  I  've  been  in  it  so  long.  But  I  suppose 
you  've  been  wondering  what  had  become  of  us,  Gertrude,  and 
will  be  surprised  to  find  we  've  got  so  far  as  New  York,  on 
our  way  home, — my  way  home,  I  should  say,  for  I'm  the 
only  one  that  talks  of  coming  at  present.  The  truth  is,  I  kept 
meaning  to  write  while  we  were  in  New  Orleans,  but  there  was 
so  much  going  on  I  didn't  get  a  chance;  and  after  that  horrid 
steamboat  from  Charleston  here,  I  wasn't  good  for  anything 
for  a  week.  But  Emily  was  so  anxious  to  have  you  written  to 
that  I  couldn't  put  it  off  any  longer  than  until  to-day.  Poor 
Emily  isn't  very  well;  I  don't  mean  that  she's  downright 
sick,  — it's  low  spirits  and  nervousness,  I  suppose,  more  than 
anything.  She  gets  tired  and  worried  very  quick,  and  is 
easily  startled  and  disturbed,  which  did  n't  use  to  be  the  case. 
I  think  likely  it 's  the  new  wife,  and  all  the  nieces,  and  other 
disagreeable  things.  She  never  complains,  and  nobody  would 
know  but  what  she  was  pleased  to  have  her  father  married 
again;  but  she  hasn't  seemed  quite  happy  all  winter,  and  now 
it  troubles  me  to  see  how  sad  she  looks  sometimes.  She  talks 
a  sight  about  you,  and  felt  dreadfully  not  to  get  any  more 
letters.  To  come  to  the  principal  thing,  however,  they  are  all 
going  to  Europe, — Emily  and  all.  I  take  it  it's  the  new 
wife's  idea;  but  whoever  proposed  the  thing,  it's  all  settled 
now.  Mr.  Graham  wanted  me  to  go,  but  I  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  thing;  I  would  as  soon  be  hung  as  venture  on  the  sea 
again,  and  I  told  him  so,  up  and  down.  So  now  he  has  writ 
ten  for  you  to  go  with  Emily ;  and  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  sea 
sickness,  I  hope  you  won't  refuse,  for  it  would  be  dreadful  for 
her  to  have  a  stranger,  and  you  know  she  always  needs  some 
body,  on  account  of  her  blindness.  I  do  not  think  she  has 
the  least  wish  to  go;  but  she  would  not  ask  to  be  left  behind, 
for  fear  her  father  should  think  she  did  not  like  the  new  wife. 
As  soon  as  they  sail,  —  which  will  be  the  last  of  April,  — 

I  shall  come  back  to  the  house  in  D ,  and  see  to  things 

there  while  they  are  away.  I  am  going  to  write  a  postscript 
to  you  from  Emily,  and  I  believe  I  will  add  nothing  more 
myself,  except  that  we  shall  be  very  impatient  to  hear  your 
answer;  and  I  must  say  once  more  that  I  hope  you  will  not 
refuse  to  go  with  Emily. 

Yours,  very  truly, 

SARAH  H.  ELLIS. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  211 

The  postscript  contained  the  following :  — 

I  need  not  tell  my  darling  Gertrude  how  much  I  have 
missed  her,  and  longed  to  have  her  with  me  again;  how  I  have 
thought  of  her  by  night  and  day,  and  prayed  God  to  strengthen 
and  fit  her  for  her  many  trials  and  labors.  The  letter  written 
soon  after  Mr.  Cooper's  death  is  the  last  that  has  reached  me, 
and  I  do  not  know  whether  Mrs.  Sullivan  is  still  living. 
Write  to  me  at  once,  my  dear  child,  if  you  cannot  come  to  us. 
Father  will  tell  you  of  our  plans,  and  ask  you  to  accompany  us 
to  Europe;  my  heart  will  be  light  if  I  can  take  my  dear  Gerty 
with  me,  but  not  if  she  leave  any  other  duty  behind.  I  trust 
to  you,  my  love,  to  decide  aright.  You  have  heard  of  father's 
marriage.  It  is  a  great  change  for  us  all,  but  will,  I  trust,  re 
sult  in  happiness.  Mrs.  Graham  has  two  nieces  who  are  with 
us  at  the  hotel.  They  are  to  be  of  our  party  to  go  abroad,  and 
are,  I  understand,  very  beautiful  girls,  especially  Belle  Clinton, 
whom  you  have  seen  in  Boston  some  years  ago.  Mrs.  Ellis  is 
very  tired  of  writing,  and  I  must  close  with  assuring  my  dear 
est  Gertrude  of  the  devoted  affection  of 

EMILY  GRAHAM. 

It  was  with  great  curiosity  that  Gertrude  unfolded  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  epistle;  she  thought  it  would  be  awkward  for  him  to 
address  her,  and  wondered  much  whether  he  would  maintain 
his  severe  and  authoritative  tone,  or  condescend  to  explain  and 
apologize.  Had  she  known  him  better,  she  would  have  been 
assured  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  him  to  do  the  latter, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  never  believe  themselves 
in  the  wrong.  The  letter  ran  thus :  — 

Miss  GERTRUDE  FLINT,  — I  am   married,   and  intend  to 
qo  abroad  on  the  28th  of  April;  my  daughter  will  accompany 
is,  and  as  Mrs.  Ellis  dreads  the  sea,  I  am  induced  to  propose 
hat  you  join  us  in  New  York,  and  attend  the  party  as  a  com 
panion  to  Emily.     I  have  not  forgotten  the  ingratitude  with 
which  you  once  slighted  a  similar  offer  on  my  part,  and  nothing 
would  compel  me  to  give  you  another  opportunity  to  manifest 
such  a  spirit,  but  a  desire  to  promote  the  happiness  of  Emily, 
and  a  sincere  wish  to  be  of  service  to  a  young  person  who  has 
been  in  my  family  so  long  that  I  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  pro- 


212  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

viding  for  her.  I  thus  put  it  in  your  power,  by  complying 
with  our  wishes,  to  do  away  from  my  mind  the  recollection  of 
your  past  behavior,  and  if  you  choose  to  return  to  us,  I  shall 
enable  you  to  maintain  the  place  and  appearance  of  a  lady.  As 
we  sail  the  last  of  the  month,  it  is  important  you  should  be 
here  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight;  and  if  you  will  write  and 
name  the  day,  I  will  myself  meet  you  at  the  boat.  Mrs.  Ellis 
being  anxious  to  return  to  Boston,  I  hope  you  will  come  as 
soon  as  possible.  As  you  will  be  obliged  to  incur  expenses,  I 
inclose  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  cover  them.  If  you  have 
contracted  debts,  let  me  know  to  what  amount,  and  I  will  see 
that  all  is  made  right  before  you  leave.  Trusting  to  your  being 
now  come  to  a  sense  of  your  duty,  I  am  ready  to  subscribe 
myself  your  friend, 

J.  H.  GRAHAM. 

Gertrude  was  sitting  near  a  lamp  whose  light  fell  directly 
upon  her  face,  which,  as  she  glanced  over  Mr.  Graham's  note, 
flushed  crimson  with  wounded  pride.  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  was 
watching  her  countenance,  observed  that  she  changed  color; 
and  during  the  few  minutes  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Arnold  stayed  to 
hear  the  news  he  gave  an  occasional  glance  of  defiance  at  the 
letter,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  gone  begged  to  be  made  ac 
quainted  with  its  contents,  assuring  Gertrude  that  if  she  did 
not  let  him  know  what  Graham  said,  he  should-  believe  it  a 
thousand  times  more  insulting  than  it  really  was. 

"He  writes,"  said  Gertrude,  "to  invite  me  to  accompany 
them  to  Europe.7' 

"  Indeed ! "  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  with  a  low  whistle,  "  and  he 
thinks  you  '11  be  silly  enough  to  pack  up  and  start  off  at  a 
minute's  notice! " 

"Why,  Gerty,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "you  '11  like  to  go,  sha'n't 
you,  dear?  It  will  be  delightful." 

"Delightful  nonsense,  Mrs.  Jerry!"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 
"  What  is  there  delightful,  I  want  to  know,  in  travelling  about 
with  an  arrogant  old  tyrant,  his  blind  daughter,  upstart,  dashy 
wife,  and  her  two  fine  lady  nieces  ?  A  pretty  position  Gertrude 
would  be  in,  a  slave  to  the  whims  of  all  that  company ! " 

"  Why,  Dr.  Jerry,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "you  forget  Emily." 

"Emily,  — to  be  sure,  she  's  an  angel,  and  never  would  im 
pose  upon  anybody,  least  of  all  her  own  pet;  but  she  '11  have 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  2 IS 

to  play  second  fiddle  herself,  and  I  'm  mistaken  if  she  doesn't 
find  it  pretty  hard  to  defend  her  rights  and  maintain  a  comfort 
able  position  in  her  father's  enlarged  family  circle." 

"So  much  the  more  need,  then,"  said  Gertrude,  "that  some 
one  should  be  enlisted  in  her  interests,  to  ward  off  the  approach 
of  every  annoyance." 

"Do  you  mean,  then,  to  put  yourself  in  the  breach? "  asked 
the  doctor. 

"I  mean  to  accept  Mr.  Graham's  invitation,"  replied  Ger 
trude,  "and  join  Emily  at  once;  but  I  trust  the  harmony  that 
seems  to  subsist  between  her  and  her  new  connections  will 
continue  undisturbed,  so  that  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  take 
up  arms  on  her  account,  and  on  my  own  I  do  not  entertain  a 
single  fear." 

"Then  you  really  think  you  shall  go,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"I  do,"  said  Gertrude;  "nothing  but  my  duty  to  Mrs.  Sul 
livan  and  her  father  led  me  to  think  of  leaving  Emily.  That 
duty  is  at  an  end,  and  now  that  I  can  be  of  use  to  her,  and 
she  wishes  me  back,  I  cannot  hesitate  a  moment.  I  see  very 
plainly,  from  Mrs.  Ellis 's  letter,  that  Emily  is  not  happy,  and 
nothing  which  I  can  do  to  make  her  so  must  be  neglected. 
Only  think,  Mrs.  Jeremy,  what  a  friend  she  has  been  to  me !  " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "and  I  dare  say  you  will 
enjoy  the  journey,  in  spite  of  all  the  scarecrows  the  doctor 
sets  up  to  frighten  you;  but  still,  I  declare,  it  does  seem  a  sac 
rifice  for  you  to  leave  your  beautiful  room,  and  all  your  com 
forts,  for  such  an  uncertain  sort  of  life  as  one  has  travelling 
with  a  large  party." 

"Sacrifice!"  interrupted  the  doctor,  "it's  the  greatest  sacri 
fice  that  ever  I  heard  of !  It  is  not  merely  giving  up  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year  of  her  own  earning,  and  as 
pleasant  a  home  as  there  is  in  Boston ;  it  is  relinquishing  all 
the  independence  that  she  has  been  striving  after,  and  which 
she  was  so  anxious  to  maintain  that  she  would  not  accept  of 
anybody's  hospitality  for  more  than  a  week  or  two." 

"No,  doctor,"  said  Gertrude  warmly,  "nothing  that  I  do  for 
Emily's  sake  can  be  called  a  sacrifice;  it  is  my  greatest  plea 
sure.  " 

"Gerty  always  finds  her  pleasure  in  doing  what  is  right," 
remarked  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"0  no,"  said  Gertrude,  "my  wishes  would  often  lead  me 


214  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

astray,  but  not  in  this  case.  The  thought  that  our  dear  Emily 
was  dependent  upon  a  stranger  for  all  those  little  attentions 
that  are  only  acceptable  from  those  she  loves  would  make  me 
miserable.  Our  happiness  has  for  years  been  almost  wholly  in 
each  other,  and  when  one  has  suffered,  the  other  has  suffered 
also.  I  must  go  to  her ;  I  cannot  think  of  doing  otherwise. " 

"I  wish  I  thought,"  muttered  Dr.  Jeremy,  "that  the  sacri 
fice  you  make  would  be  half  appreciated.  But  there  's  Gra 
ham,  I  '11  venture  to  say,  thinking  it  will  be  the  greatest  favor 
in  the  world  to  take  you  back  again.  Perhaps  he  addresses 
you  as  a  beggar;  it  would  n't  be  the  first  time  he  's  done  such 
a  thing.  I  wonder  what  would  have  induced  poor  Philip 
Amory  to  go  back."  Then,  in  a  louder  tone  he  inquired,  "Has 
he  made  any  apology  in  his  letter  for  past  unkindness  ? " 

"I  do  not  think  he  considered  any  to  be  needed,"  replied 
Gertrude. 

"Then  he  didn't  make  any  sort  of  excuse  for  his  ungentle- 
manly  behavior!  I  might  have  known  he  wouldn't.  I  de 
clare,  it 's  a  shame  you  should  be  exposed  to  any  more  such 
treatment;  but  I  always  did  hear  that  women  were  self- forget 
ful  in  their  friendship,  and  I  believe  it.  Gertrude  makes  an 
excellent  friend.  Mrs.  Jerry,  we  must  cultivate  her  regard, 
and  some  time  or  other  perhaps  make  a  loud  call  upon  her 
services. " 

"And  if  ever  you  do,  sir,  I  shall  be  ready  to  respond  to  it. 
If  there  is  a  person  in  the  world  who  owes  a  debt  to  society,  it 
is  myself.  I  hear  the  world  called  cold,  selfish,  and  unfeeling, 
but  it  has  not  been  so  to  me.  I  should  be  ungrateful  if  I  did 
not  cherish  a  spirit  of  universal  love ;  how  much  more  so,  if  I 
did  not  feel  bound  heart  and  hand  to  those  dear  friends  who 
have  bestowed  upon  me  such  affection  as  no  orphan  ever  found 
before!" 

"Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "I  believe  that  you  were 
right  in  leaving  Emily  when  you  did,  and  that  you  are  right 
in  returning  to  her  now;  and  if  your  being  such  a  good  girl 
as  you  are  is  at  all  due  to  her,  she  certainly  has  a  great  claim 
upon  you." 

"  She  has  a  claim  indeed,  Mrs.  Jeremy !  It  was  Emily  who 
first  taught  me  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  —  " 

"And  she  is  going  to  reap  the  benefit  of  that  knowledge  in 
you,"  said  the  doctor,  in  continuation  of  her  remark.  "That 's 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  215 

fair!  But  if  you  are  resolved  to  take  this  European  tour,  you 
will  be  busy  enough  with  your  preparations.  Do  you  think 
Mr.  W.  will  be  willing  to  give  you  up  1 " 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Gertrude;  "I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to 
ask  it  of  him,  for  he  has  been  very  indulgent  to  me,  and  I 
have  been  absent  from  school  two  weeks  out  of  the  winter 
already ;  but  as  there  want  only  a  few  months  to  the  summer 
vacation,  he  will  perhaps  be  able  to  supply  my  place.  I  shall 
speak  to  him  about  it  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Jeremy  now  interested  herself  in  the  details  of  Ger 
trude's  arrangements,  offered  an  attic  room  for  the  storage  of 
her  furniture,  gave  up  to  her  a  dressmaker  whom  she  had  en 
gaged  for  herself,  and  before  she  left,  a  plan  was  laid  out,  by 
following  which  Gertrude  would  be  enabled  to  start  for  New 
York  in  less  than  a  week. 

Mr.  W.,  on  being  applied  to,  relinquished  Gertrude,  though 
deeply  regretting,  as  he  told  her,  to  lose  so  valuable  an  assist 
ant;  and  after  a  few  days  busily  occupied  in  preparation,  she 
bade  farewell  to  the  tearful  Fanny  Bruce,  the  bustling  doctor 
and  his  kind-hearted  wife,  all  of  whom  accompanied  her  to  the 
railroad  station.  She  promised  to  write  to  the  Jeremys,  and 
they,  on  their  part,  agreed  to  forward  to  her  any  letters  that 
might  arrive  from  Willie. 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  from  the  time  of  her  departure,  Mrs. 
Ellis  returned  to  Boston,  and  brought  news  of  the  safe  conclu 
sion  of  Gertrude's  journey.  A  letter  received  a  week  after  by 
Mrs.  Jeremy  announced  that  they  should  sail  in  a  few  days. 
She  was  therefore  surprised  when  a  second  epistle  was  put  into 
her  hands,  dated  the  day  succeeding  that  on  which  she  sup 
posed  Mr.  Graham's  party  to  have  left  the  country.  It  was 
as  follows :  — 

NEW  YORK,  April  29. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  JEREMY,  —  As  yesterday  was  the  day  on 
which  we  expected  to  sail  for  Europe,  you  will  be  somewhat 
astonished  to  hear  that  we  are  yet  in  New  York,  and  still  more 
so  to  learn  that  the  foreign  tour  is  now  indefinitely  postponed. 
Only  two  days  since,  Mr.  Graham  was  seized  with  his  old  com 
plaint,  the  gout,  and  the  attack  proved  so  violent  as  seriously 
to  threaten  his  life.  Although  to-day  somewhat  relieved,  and 
considered  by  his  physician  out  of  immediate  danger,  he  re 
mains  a  great  sufferer,  and  a  sea  voyage  is  pronounced  imprac- 


216  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ticable  for  months  to  come.  His  great  anxiety  is  to  be  at 
home;  and  as  soon  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  bear  the  jour 
ney,  we  shall  all  hasten  to  the  house  in  D .  I  inclose  a 

note  for  Mrs.  Ellis.  It  contains  various  directions  which 
Emily  is  desirous  she  should  receive;  and  as  we  did  not  know 
how  to  address  her,  I  have  sent  it  to  you,  trusting  to  your 
kindness  to  see  it  forwarded.  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces, 
who  had  been  anticipating  much  pleasure  from  going  abroad, 
are  of  course  greatly  disappointed  at  the  entire  change  in  their 
plans  for  the  summer.  It  is  particularly  trying  to  Miss  Clin 
ton,  as  her  father  has  been  absent  more  than  a  year,  and  she 
was  hoping  to  meet  him  in  Paris. 

It  is  impossible  that  either  Emily  or  myself  should  person 
ally  regret  a  journey  of  which  we  felt  only  dread,  and  were  it 
not  for  Mr.  Graham's  illness  being  the  cause  of  its  postpone 
ment,  we  should  both,  I  think,  find  it  hard  not  to  realize  a 
degree  of  selfish  satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the 

dear  old  place  in  D ,  where  we  hope  to  be  established  in 

the  course  of  the  next  month.  I  say  we,  for  neither  Mr.  Gra 
ham  nor  Emily  will  hear  of  my  leaving  them  again. 

With  the  kindest  regards  to  yourself,  and  my  friend  the  doctor, 
I  am  yours,  very  sincerely, 

GERTRUDE  FLINT. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  217 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

I  see  her  ; 

Her  hair  in  ringlets  fluttering  free, 
And  her  lips  that  move  with  melody. 

Not  she.  —  There  's  a  beauty  that  lovelier  glows, 
Though  her  coral  lip  with  melody  flows. 

I  see  her  ;  't  is  she  of  the  ivory  brow 
And  heaven-tinged  orbs  :  I  know  her  now. 

Not  she.  — There 's  another  more  lovely  still, 
With  a  chastened  mind,  and  a  tempered  will. 

CAROLINE  OILMAN. 

MR.  GRAHAM'S  country  house  boasted  a  fine  old-fashioned 
entry  with  a  door  at  either  end,  both  of  which  usually  stood 
open  during  the  warm  weather,  admitting  a  cool  current  of  air, 
and  rendering  the  neighborhood  of  the  front  entrance  a  favorite 
resort  for  the  family,  especially  during  the  early  hours  of  the 
day,  when  the  warm  sun  had  no  access  to  the  spot;  and  the 
shady  yard,  which  sloped  gradually  down  to  the  road,  was  re 
freshing  and  grateful  to  the  sight.  Here,  on  a  pleasant  June 
morning,  Isabel  Clinton  and  her  cousin  Kitty  Ray  had  made 
themselves  comfortable,  each  according  to  her  own  idea  of  what 
constituted  comfort. 

Isabel  had  drawn  a  large  arm-chair  close  to  the  doorsill, 
ensconced  herself  in  it,  and  although  she  held  in  her  hand  a 
piece  of  worsted  work,  was  gazing  idly  down  the  road.  She 
was  a  beautiful  girl,  tall  and  finely  formed,  with  a  delicate 
complexion,  clear  blue  eyes,  and  rich,  light,  flowing  curls.  The 
same  lovely  child  whom  Gertrude  had  gazed  upon  with  rap 
ture  as,  leaning  against  the  window  of  her  father's  house,  she 
watched  old  True  while  he  lit  his  lamp,  had  ripened  into  an 
equally  lovely  woman.  Her  uncommon  beauty  aided  and  en 
hanced  by  all  the  advantages  of  dress  which  skill  could  suggest 
or  money  provide,  she  was  universally  admired,  flattered,  and 
caressed. 


218  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 

At  an  early  age  deprived  of  her  mother,  and  left  for  some 
years  almost  wholly  to  the  care  of  servants,  she  soon  learned 
to  appreciate  at  more  than  their  true  value  the  outward  attrac 
tions  she  possessed;  and  her  aunt,  under  whose  tutelage  she 
had  been  since  she  left  school,  was  little  calculated  to  counter 
act  in  her  this  undue  self-admiration.  An  appearance  of  con 
scious  superiority  which  distinguished  her,  and  the  independ 
ent  air  with  which  she  tapped  against  the  doorstep  with  her 
little  foot,  might  safely  be  attributed,  then,  to  her  conviction 
that  Belle  Clinton,  the  beauty  and  the  heiress,  was  looking 
vastly  well,  as  she  sat  there,  attired  in  a  blue  cashmere  morn 
ing  dress,  richly  embroidered,  and  flowing  open  in  front,  for 
the  purpose  of  displaying  an  equally  rich  flounced  cambric  pet 
ticoat.  It  can  scarcely  be  wondered  at  that  she  was  herself 
pleased  and  satisfied  with  an  outward  appearance  that  could 
not  fail  to  please  and  satisfy  the  most  severe  critic. 

On  a  low  step  at  her  feet  sat  Kitty  Kay,  a  complete  contrast 
to  her  cousin  in  looks,  manner,  and  many  points  of  character. 
Kitty  was  one  of  those  whom  the  world  usually  calls  a  sweet 
little  creature,  lively,  playful,  and  affectionate.  She  was  so 
small  that  her  childish  manners  became  her;  so  full  of  spirits 
that  her  occasional  rudeness  claimed  pardon  on  that  score ;  too 
thoughtless  to  be  always  amiable  or  always  wise;  and  for  all 
other  faults  her  warm-heartedness  and  generous  enthusiasm 
must  plead  an  excuse  to  one  who  wished  or  even  endeavored 
to  love  her  as  she  wished  and  expected  to  be  loved  by  every 
body.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  always  bright  and  animated, 
mirthful  and  happy ;  fond  of  her  Cousin  Belle,  and  sometimes 
influenced  by  her,  though  often,  on  the  other  hand,  enlisting 
with  all  her  force  on  the  opposite  side  of  some  contested  ques 
tion.  Unlike  Belle,  she  was  seldom  well  dressed,  for  though 
possessed  of  ample  means,  she  was  very  careless.  On  the  pre 
sent  occasion,  her  dark  silk  wrapper  was  half  concealed  by  a 
crimson  flannel  sack,  which  she  held  tightly  around  her,  declar 
ing  it  was  a  dreadful  chilly  morning,  and  she  was  half  frozen 
to  death;  she  certainly  would  go  and  warm  herself  at  the 
kitchen  fire,  if  she  were  not  afraid  of  encountering  that  she 
dragon  Mrs.  Ellis;  she  was  sure  she  did  not  see,  if  she  must 
sit  in  the  doorway,  why  Belle  couldn't  come  to  the  side  door, 
where  the  sun  shone  beautifully.  "0,  I  forgot,  though," 
added  she ;  "  complexion ! " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  219 

''Complexion!  "  said  Belle;  "I  'm  no  more  afraid  of  hurting 
my  complexion  than  you  are;  I  'm  sure  I  never  freckle,  or  tan 
either." 

"I  know  that;  but  you  burn  all  up,  and  look  like  a  fright." 

"Well,  if  I  didn't,  I  shouldn't  go  there  to  sit;  I  like  to 
be  at  the  front  of  the  house,  where  I  can  see  the  passing.  I 
wonder  who  those  people  are  coming  up  the  road;  I've  been 
watching  them  for  some  time." 

Kitty  stood  up,  and  looked  in  the  direction  to  which  Belle 
pointed.  After  observing  the  couple  who  were  approaching 
for  a  minute  or  two,  she  exclaimed,  "Why,  that's  Gertrude 
Flint!  I  wonder  where  she  's  been!  and  who  can  that  be  with 
her?  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  beau  to  be  had  about  here." 

"Beau!"  said  Belle  sneeringly. 

"And  why  not  a  beau,  Cousin  Belle!  I'm  sure  he  looks 
like  one." 

"I  wouldn't  give  much  for  any  of  her  beaux! "  said  Belle. 

"Wouldn't  you?"  said  Kitty.  "You'd  better  wait  until 
you  see  who  they  are;  you  near-sighted  people  shouldn't  de 
cide  in  such  a  hurry.  I  can  tell  you  that  he  is  a  gentleman 
you  wouldn't  object  to  walking  with  yourself;  it 's  Mr.  Bruce, 
the  one  we  met  in  New  Orleans." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  exclaimed  Belle,  starting  up. 

"You  will  soon  have  a  chance  to  see  for  yourself,  for  he  is 
coming  home  with  her." 

" He  is  ?     What  can  he  be  walking  with  her  for?  " 

".To  show  his  taste,  perhaps.  I  am  sure  he  could  not  find 
more  agreeable  company." 

"You  and  I  don't  agree  about  that,"  replied  Belle.  "I 
don't  see  anything  very  agreeable  about  her." 

"Because  you  are  determined  not  to,  Belle.  Everybody  else 
thinks  her  charming,  and  Mr.  Bruce  is  opening  the  gate  for 
her  as  politely  as  if  she  were  a  queen ;  I  like  him  for  that. " 

"Do  see,"  said  Belle;  "she  's  got  on  that  white  cape  bonnet 
of  hers !  and  that  checked  gingham  dress !  I  wonder  what  Mr. 
Bruce  thinks  of  her,  and  he  such  a  critic  in  regard  to  ladies' 
dress." 

Gertrude  and  her  companion  now  drew  near  the  house;  the 
former  looked  up,  saw  the  young  ladies  in  the  doorway,  and 
smiled  pleasantly  at  Kitty,  who  was  making  strange  grimaces, 
and  giving  significant  glances  over  Belle's  shoulder;  but  Mr. 


220  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Bruce,  who  seemed  much  engaged  by  the  society  he  was  already 
enjoying,  did  not  observe  either  of  them;  and  they  distinctly 
heard  him  say,  as  he  handed  Gertrude  a  small  parcel  he  had 
been  carrying  for  her,  "I  believe  I  won't  come  in;  it's  such 
a  bore  to  have  to  talk  to  strangers.  Do  you  work  in  the  gar 
den,  mornings,  this  summer  1 " 

"No,"  replied  Gertrude,  "there  is  nothing  left  of  my  garden 
but  the  memory  of  it." 

"Why,  Miss  Gertrude! "  said  the  young  man,  "I  hope  these 
newcomers  haven't  interfered  with  —  "  Here  observing  the 
direction  of  Gertrude's  eyes,  he  raised  his  own,  saw  Belle  and 
Kitty  standing  opposite  to  him,  and,  compelled  now  to  recog 
nize  and  speak  with  them,  went  forward  to  shake  hands,  trust 
ing  to  his  remarks  about  strangers  in  general,  and  these  new 
comers  in  particular,  not  having  been  overheard. 

Although  overheard,  the  young  ladies  chose  to  take  no  notice 
of  that  which  they  supposed  intended  for  unknown  individuals. 

They  were  mistaken,  however;  Mr.  Bruce  knew  perfectly 
well  that  the  nieces  of  the  present  Mrs.  Graham  were  the  same 
girls  whom  he  had  met  at  the  south,  and  was,  nevertheless,  in 
different  about  renewing  his  acquaintance.  His  vanity,  how 
ever,  was  not  proof  against  the  evident  pleasure  they  both 
manifested  at  seeing  him  again,  and  he  was  in  a  few  minutes 
engaged  in  an  animated  conversation  with  them,  while  Gertrude 
quietly  entered  the  house,  and  went  upstairs  unnoticed.  She 
sought  Emily's  room,  to  which  she  had  always  free  access,  and 
was  giving  an  account  of  her  morning's  expedition  to  the  vil 
lage,  and  the  successful  manner  in  which  she  had  accomplished 
various  commissions  and  errands,  when  Mrs.  Ellis  put  her  head 
in  at  the  door,  and  said,  with  a  most  distressed  voice  arid  coun 
tenance,  "Hasn't  Gertrude? —  0,  there  you  are !  Do  tell  me 
what  Mrs.  Wilkins  said  about  the  strawberries." 

"I  engaged  three  quarts;  hasn't  she  sent  them? " 

"No,  but  I'm  thankful  to  hear  they're  coming;  I  have 
been  so  plagued  about  the  dinner." 

She  now  came  in,  shut  the  door,  and  seating  herself,  ex 
claimed,  with  something  like  a  groan,  "  I  declare,  Emily,  such 
an  ironing  as  our  girls  have  got  to  do  to-day !  you  never  saw 
anything  like  it!  There's  no  end  to  the  fine  clothes  Mrs. 
Graham  and  those  nieces  of  hers  put  into  our  wash.  I  declare, 
it's  a  shame!  Kich  as  they  are,  they  might  put  out  their 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  221 

washing.  I've  been  helping  myself^  as  much  as  I  could;  but 
as  Mrs.  Prime  says,  one  can't  do  everything  at  once;  and  I  've 
had  to  see  the  butcher,  make  puddings  and  blanc-mange,  and 
been  worried  to  death  all  the  time  because  I  had  forgotten  to 
engage  those  strawberries.  So  Mrs.  Wilkins  hadn't  sent  her 
fruit  to  market  when  you  got  there  ? " 

"No,  but  she  was  in  a  great  hurry  getting  it  ready;  it 
would  have  been  gone  in  a  very  short  time." 

"Well,  that  was  lucky.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  without  the  berries,  for  I  've  no  time  to  hunt  up  anything 
else  for  dessert.  I  've  got  just  as  much  as  I  can  do  till  dinner 
time.  Mrs.  Graham  never  kept  house  before,  and  don't  know 
how  to  make  allowance  for  anything.  She  comes  home  from 
Boston,  expects  to  find  everything  in  apple  pie  order,  and  never 
asks  or  cares  who  does  the  work." 

Mrs.  Prime's  voice  was  now  heard,  calling  at  the  back  stair 
case,  "Mrs.  Ellis,  Miss  Wilkins's  boy  has  fetched  your  straw 
berries,  and  the  hulls  ain't  off  o'  one  on  'em;  he  said'  they 
hadn't  no  time." 

"That's  too  bad!"  exclaimed  the  tired,  worried  house 
keeper.  "Who's  going  to  take  the  hulls  off,  I  should  like 
to  know?  Katy  is  busy  enough,  and  I'm  sure  I  can't  do 
it." 

"I  will,  Mrs.  Ellis.  Let  me  do  it,"  said  Gertrude,  follow 
ing  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  now  halfway  down  stairs. 

"No,  no!  don't  you  touch  to,  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs. 
Prime;  "they  '11  only  stain  your  fingers  all  up." 

"No  matter  if  they  do;  my  hands  are  not  made  of  white 
kid.  They  '11  bear  washing." 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  only  too  thankful  for  Gertrude's  help,  and 
seating  herself  in  the  dining-room,  she  commenced  the  task. 
In  the  mean  while,  Belle  and  Kitty  were  doing  their  best  to 
entertain  Mr.  Bruce,  who,  sitting  on  the  doorsteps,  and  lean 
ing  back  against  a  pillar  of  the  piazza,  from  time  to  time  cast 
his  eyes  down  the  entry,  and  up  the  staircase,  in  hopes  of  Ger 
trude's  reappearance;  and  despairing  of  it  at  last,  he  was  on 
the  point  of  taking  his  departure,  when  his  sister  Fanny  came 
in  at  the  gate,  and  running  up  the  yard,  was  rushing  past  the 
assembled  trio  and  into  the  house. 

Her  brother,  however,  stretched  out  his  arm,  caught  her, 
and  before  he  let  her  go  whispered  something  in  her  ear. 


222  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Who  is  that  wild  Indian?"  asked  Kitty  Kay,  as  Fanny 
ran  across  the  entry  and  disappeared. 

"A  sister  of  mine,"  answered  Ben  in  a  nonchalant  manner. 

"Why!  is  she?"  inquired  Kitty  with  interest;  "I  have 
seen  her  here  several  times,  and  never  took  any  notice  of  her. 
I  did  n't  know  she  was  your  sister.  What  a  pretty  girl  she 
is!" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Ben;  "sorry  I  can't  agree  with 
you.  I  think  she  's  a  fright." 

Fanny  now  reappeared,  and  stopping  a  moment  on  her  way 
upstairs,  called  out,  without  any  ceremony,  "  She  says  she  can't 
come;  she  's  busy." 

"WTho?"  asked  Kitty,  in  her  turn  catching  Fanny  and  de 
taining  her. 

"Miss  Flint." 

Mr.  Bruce  colored  slightly,  and  Belle  Clinton  observed  it. 

"What  is  she  doing?"  inquired  Kitty. 

"Hulling  strawberries." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Fanny? "  asked  her  brother. 

"Upstairs." 

"Do  they  let  you  go  all  over  the  house? " 

"Miss  Flint  said  I  might  go  up  and  bring  down  the  birds." 

"What  birds?" 

"  Her  birds ;  I  am  going  to  hang  them  in  the  sun,  and  then 
they  '11  sing  beautifully." 

She  ran  off,  and  soon  came  back  again  with  a  cage  in  her 
hand,  containing  the  little  monias,  sent  by  Willie  from  Cal 
cutta. 

"There,  Kitty,"  cried  Belle;  "I  think  those  are  the  birds 
that  wake  us  up  so  early  every  morning  with  their  noise. " 

"Very  likely,"  said  Kitty;  "bring  them  here,  will  you, 
Fanny  ?  I  want  to  see  them.  Goodness ! "  continued  she, 
"what  little  creatures  they  are!  Do  look  at  them,  Mr.  Bruce 
—  they  are  sweet  pretty. " 

"Put  them  down  on  the  doorstep,  Fanny,"  said  Ben,  "so 
that  we  can  see  them  better." 

"I'm  afraid  you '11  frighten  them,"  replied  Fanny;  "Miss 
Gertrude  doesn't  like  to  have  them  frightened." 

"No,  we  won't,"  said  Ben;  "we  are  disposed  to  be  very 
friendly  to  Miss  Gertrude's  birds.  Where  did  she  get  them  ? 
Do  you  know,  Fanny  ?  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  223 

"Why,  they  are  India  birds;  Mr.  Sullivan  sent  them  to 
her." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"0,  he  is  a  very  particular  friend;  she  has  letters  from  him 
every  little  while." 

"What  Mr.  Sullivan?"  asked  Belle.  "Do  you  know  his 
Christian  name  ? " 

"I  suppose  it 's  William,"  said  Fanny.  "Miss  Emily  al 
ways  calls  the  birds  little  Willies." 

"Belle,"  exclaimed  Kitty,  "that 's  your  William  Sullivan!  " 

"What  a  favored  man  he  seems  to  be!"  said  Mr.  Bruce  in 
a  tone  of  sarcasm;  "the  property  of  one  beautiful  lady,  and 
the  particular  friend  of  another." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Kitty,"  said  Belle  tartly. 
"Mr.  Sullivan  is  a  junior  partner  of  my  father's,  but  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  years." 

"Except  in  your  dreams,  Belle,"  suggested  Kitty.  "You 
forget." 

Belle  now  looked  angry. 

"Do  you  dream  about  Mr.  Sullivan?"  asked  Fanny,  fixing 
her  eyes  on  Belle  as  she  spoke.  "I  mean  to  go  and  ask  Miss 
Gertrude  if  she  does." 

"Do,"  said  Kitty;  "I  '11  go  with  you." 

They  ran  across  the  entry,  opened  the  door  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  both  put  the  question  to  her  at  the  same  moment. 

Taken  thus  by  surprise,  Gertrude  neither  blushed  nor  looked 
confused,  but  answered  quietly,  "  Yes,  sometimes ;  but  what  do 
you,  either  of  you,  know  of  Mr.  Sullivan  ?  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"0,  nothing,"  answered  Kitty ;  "only  some  others  do,  and 
we  are  inquiring  round  to  see  how  many  there  are,"  and  she 
shut  the  door  and  ran  back  in  triumph,  to  tell  Belle  she  might 
as  well  be  frank,  like  Gertrude,  and  plead  guilty  to  the  weak 
ness;  it  looked  so  much  better  than  blushing  and  denying  it. 

But  it  would  not  do  to  joke  with  Belle  any  longer;  she  was 
seriously  offended,  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  Mr. 
Bruce  felt  awkward  and  annoyed,  and  soon  went  away,  leaving 
the  two  cousins  to  settle  their  difficulty  as  they  best  could.  As 
soon  as  he  had  gone,  Belle  folded  up  her  work,  and  walked 
upstairs  to  her  room  with  great  dignity,  while  Kitty  stayed 
behind  to  laugh  over  the  matter,  and  improve  her  opportunity 
to  make  friends  with  Fanny  Bruce;  for  Kitty  was  not  a  little 


224  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

interested  in  the  brother,  and  labored  under  the  common  but 
often  mistaken  idea  that  in  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  the 
sister  she  should  advance  her  cause.  Perhaps  she  was  some 
what  induced  to  this  step  by  her  having  observed  that  Gertrude 
appeared  to  be  an  equal  favorite  with  both. 

She  therefore  called  Fanny  to  sit  beside  her,  put  her  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  commenced  talking  about  Gertrude,  and 
the  origin  and  extent  of  the  intimacy  which  seemed  to  exist 
between  her  and  the  Bruce  family. 

Fanny,  who  was  always  communicative,  willingly  informed 
her  of  the  circumstances  which  had  attached  her  so  strongly  to 
a  friend  who  was  some  years  her  senior. 

"And  your  brother,"  said  Kitty;  "he  has  known  her  some 
time,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Fanny  carelessly. 

"Does  he  like  her?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  should  think  he  would;  I  don't  see  how 
he  can  help  it." 

"What  did  he  whisper  to  you,  when  you  came  up  the 
steps?" 

Fanny  could  not  remember  at  once ;  but  on  being  reminded 
of  the  answer  she  had  given,  she  replied  promptly,  — 

"0,  he  bade  me  ask  Miss  Gertrude  if  she  wasn't  coming 
back  to  see  him  again,  and  tell  her  he  was  tired  to  death  wait 
ing  for  her. " 

Kitty  pouted  and  looked  vexed.  "I  want  to  know,"  said 
she,  "if  Miss  Flint  has  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  company 
here,  and  being  treated  like  an  equal  ?  " 

"Of  course  she  has,"  answered  Fanny  with  spirit;  "why 
should  n't  she  ?  She  's  the  most  perfect  Jady  I  ever  saw,  and 
mother  says  she  has  beautiful  manners,  and  I  must  take  pat 
tern  by  her." 

"0,  Miss  Gertrude,"  called  she,  as  Gertrude,  who  had  been 
to  place  the  strawberries  in  the  refrigerator,  crossed  the  back 
part  of  the  long  entry,  "are  you  ready  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  Fanny,  I  shall  be  in  a  moment,"  answered  Gertrude. 

"  Eeady  for  what  ?  "  inquired  Kitty. 

"To  read,"  said  Fanny.  "She  is  going  to  read  the  rest  of 
Hamlet  to  Miss  Emily ;  she  read  the  first  three  acts  yesterday, 
and  Miss  Emily  let  me  sit  in  her  room  and  hear  it.  I  can't 
understand  it  when  I  read  it  myself;  but  when  I  listen  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  225 

Miss  Gertrude,  it  seems  quite  plain.  She  's  a  splendid  reader, 
and  I  came  in  to-day  on  purpose  to  hear  the  play  finished." 

Kitty's  last  companion  having  deserted  her,  she  stretched 
herself  on  the  entry  sofa  and  fell  asleep.  She  was  wakened 
by  her  aunt,  who  returned  from  the  city  a  short  time  before 
dinner,  and  finding  her  asleep  in  her  morning  wrapper,  shook 
her  by  the  arm,  and  said,  in  a  voice  which  the  best  intentions 
could  never  render  otherwise  than  loud  and  coarse,  "Kitty 
Kay,  wake  up  and  go  dress  for  dinner!  I  saw  Belle  at  the 
chamber  window,  looking  like  a  beauty.  I  wish  you  'd  take 
half  the  pains  she  does  to  improve  your  appearance." 

Kitty  yawned,  and  after  delaying  as  long  as  she  chose,  finally 
followed  Mrs.  Graham's  directions.  It  was  Kitty's  policy, 
after  giving  offence  to  her  Cousin  Belle,  to  appear  utterly  un 
conscious  of  the  existence  of  any  unkind  feelings;  and  though 
Belle  often  manifested  some  degree  of  sulkiness,  she  was  too 
dependent  upon  Kitty's  society  to  retain  that  disposition  long. 
They  were  soon,  therefore,  chatting  together  as  usual. 

"Belle,"  said  Kitty,  as  she  stood  arranging  her  hair  at  the 
glass,  "do  you  remember  a  girl  we  used  to  meet  every  morn 
ing,  on  our  way  to  school,  walking  with  a  paralytic  old  man  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  I  think  it  was  Gertrude  Flint?  She  has 
altered  very  much,  to  be  sure;  but  the  features  are  still  the 
same,  and  there  certainly  never  was  but  one  such  pair  of  eyes." 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  is  the  same  person,"  said  Belle  com 
posedly. 

"  Did  you  think  of  it  before  1 " 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  Fanny  spoke  of  her  knowing  Willie  Sulli 
van." 

"Why,  Belle,  why  didn't  you  speak  of  it?" 

"Lor',  Kitty,  I  don't  feel  so  much  interest  in  her  as  you 
and  some  others  do." 

"What  others?" 

It  was  now  Belle's  turn  to  be  provoking. 

"Why,  Mr.  Bruce;  don't  you  see  he  is  half  in  love  with 
her?" 

"No,  I  don't  see  any  such  thing;  he  has  known  her  for  a 
long  time  (Fanny  says  so),  and  of  course  he  feels  a  regard  and 
respect  for  a  girl  that  the  Grahams  make  so  much  account  of. 
But  I  don't  believe  he  'd  think  of  such  a  thing  as  being  in  love 


226  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

with  a  poor  girl  like  her,  with  no  family  connections  to  boast 
of." 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  think  of  being." 

"Well,  he  wouldn't  be.  She  isn't  the  sort  of  a  person 
that  would  suit  him.  He  has  been  in  society  a  great  deal,  not 
only  at  home,  but  in  Paris;  and  he  would  want  a  wife  that 
was  very  lively  and  fond  of  company,  and  knew  how  to  make 
a  show  with  money." 

"A  girl,  for  instance,  like  Kitty  Kay." 

"How  ridiculous,  Belle!  just  as  if  people  couldn't  talk 
without  thinking  of  themselves  all  the  time !  What  do  I  care 
about  Ben  Bruce  1 " 

"I  don't  know  that  you  care  anything  about  him;  but  I 
wouldn't  pull  all  the  hair  out  of  my  head  about  it,  as  you 
seem  to  be  doing.  There 's  the  dinner  bell,  and  you  '11  be 
late,  as  usual." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  227 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 

A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 

A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre. 

LOWELL. 

TWILIGHT  of  this  same  day  found  Gertrude  and  Emily 
seated  at  a  window  which  commanded  a  delightful  western 
view.  Gertrude  had  been  describing  to  her  blind  friend  the 
gorgeous  picture  presented  to  her  vision  by  the  masses  of  rich 
and  brilliantly  painted  cloud;  and  Emily,  as  she  listened  to 
the  glowing  description  of  nature,  as  she  unfolded  herself  at  an 
hour  which  they  both  preferred  to  all  others,  experienced  a 
participation  in  Gertrude's  enjoyment.  The  glory  had  now 
iaded  away,  save  a  long  strip  of  gold  which  skirted  the  horizon ; 
nnd  the  stars,  as  they  came  out,  one  by  one,  seemed  to  look  in 
at  the  chamber  window  with  a  smile  of  recognition. 

In  the  parlor  below  there  was  company  from  the  city,  and 
the  sound  of  mirth  and  laughter  came  up  on  the  evening  breeze ; 
so  mellowed,  however,  by  distance,  that  it  contrasted  with  the 
peace  of  the  quiet  room  without  disturbing  it. 

"You  had  better  go  down,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily;  "they 
appear  to  be  enjoying  themselves,  and  I  love  to  hear  your 
laugh  mingling  with  the  rest." 

"0,  no,  dear  Emily!"  said  Gertrude;  "I  prefer  to  stay 
with  you;  they  are  nearly  all  strangers  to  me." 

"As  you  please,  my  dear;  but  don't  let  me  keep  you  from 
the  young  people." 

"  You  can  never  keep  me  with  you,  dear  Emily,  longer  than 
I  wish  to  stay;  there  is  no  society  I  love  so  well."  And  so 
she  stayed,  and  they  resumed  their  pleasant  conversation,  which, 
though  harmonious  and  calm,  was  not  without  its  playfulness 
and  occasional  gleams  of  wit. 

They  were  interrupted  by  Katy,  whom  Mrs.  Graham  sent  to 
announce  a  new  visitor,  — Mrs.  Bruce,  — who  had  inquired  for 
Emily. 


228  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"I  suppose  I  must  go  down,"  said  Emily;  "you'll  come 
too,  Gertrude?" 

"No,  I  believe  not,  unless  she  asked  for  me.  Did  she, 
Katy  ? " 

"Mrs.  Graham  was  only  afther  mintioning  Miss  Emily," 
said  Katy. 

"Then  I  will  stay  here,"  said  Gertrude;  and  Emily,  finding 
it  to  be  her  wish,  went  without  her. 

There  was  soon  another  loud  ring  at  the  doorbell.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  reception  evening,  and  this  time  Gertrude's  presence 
was  particularly  requested,  to  see  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

When  she  entered  the  parlor,  she  found  a  great  number  of 
guests  assembled,  and  every  seat  in  the  room  occupied.  As 
she  came  in  alone,  and  unexpected  by  the  greater  part  of  the 
company,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  her.  Contrary  to  the  ex 
pectation  of  Belle  and  Kitty,  who  were  watching  her  with 
curiosity,  she  manifested  neither  embarrassment  nor  awkward 
ness;  but  glancing  leisurely  at  the  various  groups,  until  she 
recognized  Mrs.  Jeremy,  crossed  the  large  saloon  with  charac 
teristic  grace,  and  as  much  ease  and  self-possession  as  if  she 
were  the  only  person  present.  After  greeting  that  lady  with 
her  usual  warmth  and  cordiality,  she  turned  to  speak  to  the 
doctor;  but  he  was  sitting  next  Fanny  Bruce  in  the  window- 
seat,  and  was  half  concealed  by  the  curtain.  Before  he  could 
rise  and  come  forward,  Mrs.  Bruce  nodded  pleasantly  from  the 
opposite  corner,  and  Gertrude  went  to  shake  hands  with  her ; 
Mr.  Bruce,  who  formed  one  in  a  gay  circle  of  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen  collected  in  that  part  of  the  room,  and  who  had  been 
observing  Gertrude's  motions  so  attentively  as  to  make  no  reply 
to  a  question  put  to  him  by  Kitty  Ray,  now  rose  and  offered 
his  chair,  saying,  "Miss  Gertrude,  do  take  this  seat." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,  "but  I  see  my  friend  the  doc 
tor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room;  he  expects  me  to  come  and 
speak  to  him,  so  don't  let  me  disturb  you." 

Dr.  Jeremy  now  came  halfway  across  the  room  to  meet  her, 
and  taking  her  by  both  hands,  led  her  into  the  recess  formed 
by  the  window,  and  placed  her  in  his  own  seat,  next  to  Fanny 
Bruce.  To  the  astonishment  of  all  who  knew  him,  Ben  Bruce 
brought  his  own  chair  and  placed  it  for  the  doctor  opposite  to 
Gertrude.  So  much  respect  for  age  had  not  been  anticipated 
from  the  modern-bred  man  of  fashion. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  229 

"  Is  that  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham  ? "  asked  a  young  ladv 
of  Belle  Clinton,  who  sat  next  her. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Belle;  "she  is  a  person  to  whom 
Miss  Graham  gave  an  education,  and  now  she  lives  here  to  read 
to  her,  and  be  a  sort  of  companion ;  her  name  is  Flint." 

"What  did  you  say  that  young  lady's  name  was?"  asked 
a  dashing  lieutenant,  leaning  forward  and  addressing  Isabel. 

"Miss  Flint." 

"Flint,  ah!  she's  a  genteel-looking  girl.  How  peculiarly 
she  dresses  her  hair !  " 

"Very  becoming,  however,  to  that  style  of  face,"  remarked 
the  young  lady  who  had  first  spoken.  "Don't  you  think  so? " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  lieutenant;  "something  be 
comes  her;  she  makes  a  fine  appearance.  Bruce,"  said  he,  as 
Mr.  Bruce  returned,  after  his  unusual  effort  at  politeness, 
"who  is  that  Miss  Flint?  I  have  been  here  two  or  three 
times,  and  I  never  saw  her  before." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Mr.  Bruce;  "she  won't  always  show 
herself.  Is  n't  she  a  fine-looking  girl?  " 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet;  she's  got  a  splendid 
figure,  but  who  is  she  ?  " 

"She's  a  sort  of  adopted  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham's,  I  be 
lieve;  a  protegee  of  Miss  Emily's." 

"  Ah !  poor  thing !     An  orphan  1 " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Ben,  biting  his  lip. 

"Pity ! "  said  the  young  man;  "poor  thing!  but,  as  you  say, 
Ben,  she's  good  looking,  particularly  when  she  smiles;  there 
is  something  very  attractive  about  her  face." 

There  certainly  was  to  Ben,  for  a  moment  after,  Kitty  Bay 
missed  him  from  the  room,  and  immediately  espied  him  stand 
ing  on  the  piazza,  and  leaning  through  the  open  window  to 
talk  with  Gertrude,  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  Fanny.  The  conversa 
tion  soon  became  very  lively ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  war  of  wits 
going  on;  the  doctor,  especially,  laughed  very  loud,  and  Ger 
trude  and  Fanny  often  joined  in  the  merry  peal.  Kitty  en 
dured  it  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  ran  boldly  across  to 
join  the  party,  and  hear  what  they  were  having  so  much  fun 
about. 

But  it  was  all  an  enigma  to  Kitty.  Dr.  Jeremy  was  talking 
with  Mr.  Bruce  concerning  something  which  had  happened 
many  years  ago;  there  was  a  great  deal  about  a  fool's  cap,  with 


230  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

a  long  tassel,  and  taking  afternoon  naps  in  the  grass;  the  doe« 
tor  was  making  queer  allusions  to  some  old  pear-tree,  and  traps 
set  for  thieves,  and  kept  reminding  Gertrude  of  circumstances 
which  attended  their  first  acquaintance  with  each  other  and 
with  Mr.  Bruce. 

Kitty  was  beginning  to  feel  that,  as  she  was  uninitiated  in  all 
they  were  talking  about,  she  had  placed  herself  in  the  position 
of  an  intruder,  and  was  thereupon  looking  a  little  embarrassed 
and  ill  at  ease,  when  Gertrude  touched  her  arm,  and  kindly 
making  room  for  her  next  herself,  motioned  to  her  to  sit  down, 
saying  as  she  did  so,  "Dr.  Jeremy  is  speaking  of  the  time 
when  he  (or  he  and  /,  as  he  chooses  to  have  it)  went  fruit 
stealing  in  Mrs.  Bruce's  orchard,  and  were  unexpectedly  dis 
covered  by  Mr.  Bruce." 

"You  mean,  my  dear,37  interrupted  the  doctor,  "that  Mr. 
Bruce  was  discovered  by  us.'  Why,  it 's  my  opinion  he  would 
have  slept  until  this  time  if  I  hadn't  given  him  such  a  thor 
ough  waking  up ! " 

"My  first  acquaintance  with  you  was  certainly  the  greatest 
awakening  of  my  life,"  said  Ben,  speaking  as  if  to  the  doctor, 
but  looking  meaningly  at  Gertrude;  "that  was  not  the  only 
nap  it  cost  me.  How  sorry  I  am,  Miss  Gertrude,  that  you  've 
given  up  working  in  the  garden,  as  you  used  to !  Pray,  how 
does  it  happen  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Graham  has  had  it  remodelled,"  replied  Gertrude, 
"and  the  new  gardener  neither  needs  nor  desires  my  services. 
He  has  his  own  plans,  and  it  is  not  well  to  interfere  with  the 
professor  of  an  art;  I  should  be  sure  to  do  mischief." 

"I  doubt  whether  his  success  compares  with  yours,"  said 
Ben.  "I  do  not  see  anything  like  the  same  quantity  of  flow 
ers  in  the  room  that  you  used  to  have." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Gertrude,  "that  he  is  as  fond  of  cut 
ting  them  as  I  was.  I  did  not  care  so  much  for  the  appearance 
of  the  garden  as  for  having  plenty  of  flowers  in  the  house;  but 
with  him  it  is  the  reverse." 

Kitty  now  addressed  some  remark  to  Mr.  Bruce  on  the  sub 
ject  of  gardening,  and  Gertrude,  turning  to  Dr.  Jeremy,  con 
tinued  in  earnest  conversation  with  him,  until  Mrs.  Jeremy 
rose  to  go,  when,  approaching  the  window,  she  said,  "Dr. 
Jerry,  have  you  given  Gertrude  her  letter  1 " 

"Goodness  me!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "I  came  near  forget- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  231 

ting  it."  Then,  feeling  in  his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  an  evi 
dently  foreign  document,  the  envelope  literally  covered  with 
various  colored  post-office  stamps.  "See  here,  Gerty,  genuine 
Calcutta;  no  mistake!" 

Gertrude  took  the  letter,  and  as  she  thanked  the  doctor  her 
countenance  expressed  pleasure  at  receiving  it;  a  pleasure, 
however,  somewhat  tempered  by  sadness,  for  she  had  heard 
from  Willie  but  once  since  he  learned  the  news  of  his  mother's 
death,  and  that  letter  had  been  such  an  outpouring  of  his  vehe 
ment  grief  that  the  sight  of  his  handwriting  almost  pained 
her,  as  she  anticipated  something  like  a  repetition  of  the  out 
burst. 

Mr.  Bruce,  who  kept  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  half  expected  to 
see  her  change  color  and  look  disconcerted,  on  the  letter  being 
handed  to  her  in  the  presence  of  so  many  witnesses,  was  reas 
sured  by  the  composure  with  which  she  took  it,  and  held  it 
openly  in  her  hand  while  she  bade  the  doctor  and  his  wife 
good- evening.  She  followed  them  to  the  door,  and  was  then 
retreating  to  her  own  apartment,  when  she  was  met  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  by  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  noticed  the  movement, 
and  now  entered  from  the  piazza  in  time  to  arrest  her  steps, 
and  ask  if  her  letter  was  of  such  importance  that  she  must 
deny  the  company  the  pleasure  of  her  society  in  order  to  study 
its  contents. 

"It  is  from  a  friend  of  whose  welfare  I  am  anxious  to  hear," 
said  Gertrude  gravely.  "Please  excuse  me  to  your  mother,  if 
she  inquires  for  me ;  and  as  the  rest  of  the  guests  are  strangers, 
I  shall  not  be  missed  by  them." 

"0,  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Mr.  Bruce,  "it's  no  use  coming 
here  to  see  you,  you  are  so  frequently  invisible.  What  part 
of  the  day  is  one  most  likely  to  find  you  disengaged  ? " 

"Hardly  any  part,"  said  Gertrude.  "I  am  always  a  very 
busy  character;  but  good-night,  Mr.  Bruce.  Don't  let  me 
detain  you  from  the  other  young  ladies,"  and  Gertrude  ran 
upstairs,  leaving  Mr.  Bruce  uncertain  whether  to  be  vexed 
with  himself  or  her. . 

Contrary  to  Gerty 's  expectations,  her  letter  from  William 
Sullivan  proved  very  soothing  to  the  grief  she  had  felt  on  his 
account.  His  spirit  had  been  so  weighed  down  and  crushed 
by  the  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his  grandfather,  and  finally 
of  his  second  and  still  greater  loss,  that  his  first  communication 


232  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

to  Gertrude  had  alarmed  her,  from  the  discouraged,  disheart 
ened  tone  in  which  it  was  written;  she  had  feared  lest  his 
Christian  fortitude  would  give  way  to  the  force  of  this  double 
affliction. 

She  was  therefore  much  relieved  to  find  that  he  now  wrote 
in  a  calmer  strain;  that  he  had  taken  to  heart  his  mother's  last 
entreaty  and  prayer  for  a  submissive  disposition  on  his  part; 
and  that,  although  deeply  afflicted,  he  was  schooling  himself  to 
patience  and  resignation.  But  he  did  not,  in  this  letter,  dwell 
long  upon  his  own  sufferings  under  bereavement. 

The  three  closely  written  pages  were  almost  wholly  devoted 
to  fervent  and  earnest  expressions  of  gratitude  to  Gertrude  for 
the  active  kindness  and  love  which  had  cheered  and  comforted 
the  last  days  of  his  much  regretted  friends.  He  prayed  that 
Heaven  would  bless  her,  and  reward  her  disinterested  and  self- 
denying  efforts,  and  closed  with  saying,  "You  are  all  there  is 
left  to  me,  Gertrude.  If  I  loved  you  before,  my  heart  is  now 
bound  to  you  by  ties  stronger  than  those  of  earth ;  my  hopes, 
my  labors,  my  prayers,  are  all  for  you.  God  grant  we  may 
some  day  meet  again !  " 

For  an  hour  after  she  had  finished  reading,  Gertrude  sat  lost 
in  meditation;  her  thoughts  went  back  to  her  home  at  Uncle 
True's,  and  the  days  when  she  and  Willie  passed  so  many 
happy  hours  in  close  companionship,  little  dreaming  of  the  long 
separation  so  soon  to  ensue.  She  rehearsed,  in  her  mind,  all 
the  succeeding  events  which  had  brought  her  into  her  present 
position,  and  was  only  startled  at  last  from  the  reverie  she  was 
indulging  in  by  the  voices  of  Mrs.  Graham's  visitors,  who 
were  now  taking  leave. 

Mrs.  Bruce  and  her  son  lingered  a  little,  until  the  carriages 
had  driven  off  with  those  of  the  guests  who  were  to  return  to 
the  city,  and  as  they  were  making  their  farewells  on  the  door 
step,  directly  beneath  Gertrude's  window,  she  heard  Mrs.  Gra 
ham  say,  " Kemernber,  Mr.  Bruce,  we  dine  at  two;  and,  Miss 
Fanny,  we  shall  hope  to  see  you  also.  I  presume  you  will 
join  the  walking  party." 

This,  then,  was  an  arrangement  which  was  to  bring  Mr. 
Bruce  there  to  dinner,  at  no  very  distant  period;  and  Ger 
trude's  reflections,  forsaking  the  past,  began  to  centre  upon  the 
present. 

Mr.  Bruce 's  attentions  to  her  had  that  day  been  marked; 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  233 

and  the  professions  of  admiration  he  had  contrived  to  whisper 
in  her  ear  had  been  still  more  so.  Both  these  attentions  and 
this  admiration  were  unsought  and  undesired;  neither  were 
they  in  any  degree  flattering  to  the  high-minded  girl,  who  was 
superior  to  coquetry,  and  whose  self-respect  was  even  wounded 
by  the  confident  and  assured  manner  in  which  Mr.  Bruce  made 
his  advances.  As  a  youth  of  seventeen,  she  had  marked  him 
as  indolent  and  ill  bred.  Her  sense  of  justice,  however,  would 
have  obliterated  this  recollection,  had  his  character  and  man 
ners  appeared  changed  on  the  renewal  of  their  acquaintance, 
some  years  after.  This  was  not  the  case,  however,  for  the 
outward  polish,  bestowed  by  fashion  and  familiarity  with  so 
ciety,  could  not  cloud  Gertrude's  discernment;  and  she  quickly 
perceived  that  his  old  characteristics  still  remained,  heightened 
and  rendered  more  glaring  by  an  ill-concealed  vanity.  As  a 
boy,  he  had  stared  at  Gertrude  from  impudence,  and  inquired 
her  name  out  of  idle  curiosity ;  as  a  youthful  coxcomb,  he  had 
resolved  to  flirt  with  her,  because  his  time  hung  heavy  on  his 
hands,  and  he  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  do.  But  to 
his  surprise,  he  found  the  country  girl  (for  such  he  considered 
her,  never  having  seen  her  elsewhere)  was  quite  insensible  to 
the  flattery  and  notice  which  many  a  city  belle  had  coveted; 
appeared  wholly  indifferent  to  his  admiration,  and  that  when 
he  tried  raillery  he  usually  proved  the  disconcerted  party.  If 
he  sought  her,  as  he  was  frequently  in  the  habit  of  doing  when 
she  was  at  work  among  the  flowers,  he  found  it  impossible  to 
distract  her  attention  from  her  labors,  or  detain  her  after  they 
were  completed;  if  he  joined  her  in  her  walks,  and  with  his 
wonted  self-conceit  made  her  aware  of  the  honor  he  supposed 
himself  conferring,  she  either  maintained  a  dignity  which 
warded  off  his  fulsome  adulation,  or,  if  he  ventured  to  make 
her  the  object  of  direct  compliment,  received  it  as  a  jest,  and 
retorted  with  a  playfulness  and  wit  which  often  left  the  opaque 
wits  of  poor  Ben  in  some  doubt  whether  he  had  not  been  mak 
ing  himself  ridiculous ;  and  this,  not  because  Gertrude  was  will 
ing  to  wound  the  feelings  of  one  who  was  disposed  to  admire 
her,  but  because  she  perceived  that  he  was  far  from  being  sin 
cere,  and  she  had  an  honorable  pride  which  would  not  endure 
to  be  trifled  with. 

It  was  something  new  to  Mr.  Bruce  to  find  any  lady  thus 
indifferent  to  his  merits,  and  proved  such  an  awakening  to  his 


234  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ambition,  that  he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  recommend  himself 
to  Gertrude,  and  consequently  improved  every  opportunity  of 
gaining  admittance  to  her  society. 

While  laboring,  however,  to  inspire  her  with  a  due  appre 
ciation  of  himself,  he  fell  into  his  own  snare;  for,  though  he 
failed  in  awakening  Gertrude's  interest,  he  could  not  be  equally 
insensible  to  her  attractions.  Even  the  comparatively  dull  in 
tellect  of  Ben  Bruce  was  capable  of  measuring  her  vast  supe 
riority  to  most  girls  of  her  age,  and  her  vivacious  originality 
was  a  contrast  to  the  insipidity  of  fashionable  life,  which  at 
length  completely  charmed  him. 

His  earnestness  and  perseverance  began  to  annoy  the  object 
of  his  admiration  before  she  left  Mr.  Graham's  in  the  autumn, 
and  she  was  glad  soon  after  to  hear  that  he  had  accompanied 
his  mother  to  Washington,  as  it  insured  her  against  meeting 
him  again  for  months  to  come. 

Mr.  Bruce  regretted  losing  sight  of  Gertrude,  but  amid  the 
gayety  and  dissipation  of  southern  cities  contrived  to  waste  hia 
time  with  tolerable  satisfaction.  He  was  reminded  of  her  again 
on  meeting  the  Graham  party  at  New  Orleans,  and  it  is  some 
credit  to  his  understanding  to  say  that  in  the  comparison  which 
he  constantly  drew  between  her  and  the  vain  daughters  of 
fashion  she  stood  higher  than  ever  in  his  estimation.  He  did 
not  hesitate  to  tell  her  so  on  the  morning  already  mentioned, 
when,  with  evident  satisfaction,  he  had  recognized  and  joined 
her;  and  the  increased  devotion  of  his  words  and  manner, 
which  now  took  a  tone  of  truth  in  which  they  had  before  been 
wanting,  alarmed  Gertrude,  and  led  to  a  serious  resolve  on  her 
part  to  avoid  him  on  all  possible  occasions.  It  will  soon  be 
seen  how  difficult  she  found  it  to  carry  out  this  resolution. 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  one  of  which  we  have  been  speak 
ing,  Mr.  Graham  returned  from  the  city  about  noon,  and  join 
ing  the  young  ladies  in  the  entry,  unfolded  his  newspaper,  and 
handing  it  to  Kitty,  asked  her  to  read  the  news. 

"  What  shall  I  read  ? "  said  Kitty,  taking  the  paper  rather 
unwillingly. 

"The  leading  article,  if  you  please." 

Kitty  turned  the  paper  inside  and  out,  looked  hastily  up  and 
down  its  pages,  and  then  declared  her  inability  to  find  it.  Mr. 
Graham  stared  at  her  in  astonishment,  then  pointed  in  silence 
to  the  wished-for  paragraph.  She  began,  but  had  scarcely  read 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  235 

a  sentence  before  Mr.  Graham  stopped  her,  saying  impatiently, 
"Don't  read  so  fast!  I  can't  hear  a  single  word!"  She  now 
fell  into  the  other  extreme,  and  drawled  so  intolerably  that  her 
auditor  interrupted  her  again,  and  bade  her  give  the  paper  to 
her  cousin. 

Belle  took  it  from  the  pouting  Kitty,  and  finished  the  arti 
cle,  not,  however,  without  being  once  or  twice  compelled  to  go 
back  and  read  more  intelligibly. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  hear  anything  more,  sir  ?  "  asked  she. 

"Yes;  won't  you  turn  to  the  ship  news,  and  read  me  the 
list  by  the  steamer." 

Belle,  more  fortunate  than  Kitty,  found  the  place,  and  com 
menced.  "'At  Canton,  April  30th,  ship  Ann  Maria,  Ray, 
d-i-s-c-g. '  —  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"Discharging,  of  course;  go  on." 

"<S-l-d  —  a-b-t  13th,'"  spelt  Belle,  looking  dreadfully  puz 
zled  all  the  while. 

"Stupid!"  muttered  Mr.  Graham,  almost  snatching  the 
paper  out  of  her  hands.  "Not  know  how  to  read  ship  news! 
Where's  Gertrude?  Where's  Gertrude  Flint?  She's  the 
only  girl  I  ever  saw  that  did  know  anything.  Won't  you  speak 
to  her,  Kitty?" 

Kitty  went,  though  rather  reluctantly,  to  call  Gertrude,  and 
told  her  for  what  she  was  wanted.  Gertrude  was  astonished; 
since  the  day  when  she  had  persisted  in  leaving  his  house,  Mr. 
Graham  had  never  asked  her  to  read  to  him ;  but  obedient  to 
the  summons,  she  presented  herself,  and  taking  the  seat  which 
Belle  had  vacated  near  the  door,  commenced  with  the  ship 
news,  and  without  asking  any  questions,  turned  to  various 
items  of  intelligence,  taking  them  in  the  order  which  she  knew 
Mr.  Graham  preferred. 

The  old  gentleman,  leaning  back  in  his  easy-chair,  and  rest 
ing  his  gouty  foot  upon  an  ottoman  opposite  to  him,  looked 
amazingly  contented  and  satisfied;  and  when  Belle  and  Kitty 
had  gone  off  to  their  room,  he  remarked,  "  This  seems  like  old 
times,  does  n't  it,  Gertrude  ? "  He  now  closed  his  eyes,  and 
Gertrude  was  soon  made  aware,  by  his  deep  breathing,  that  he 
had  fallen  asleep. 

Seeing  that,  as  he  sat,  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  pass 
without  waking  him,  she  laid  down  the  paper,  and  was  prepar 
ing  to  draw  some  work  from  her  pocket  (for  Gertrude  seldom 


236  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

spent  her  time  in  idleness),  when  she  observed  a  shadow  in  the 
doorway,  and  looking  up,  saw  the  very  person  whom  she  had 
yesterday  resolved  to  avoid. 

Mr.  Bruce  was  staring  in  her  face  with  an  indolent  air  of 
ease  and  confidence,  which  she  always  found  very  offensive. 
He  had  in  one  hand  a  bunch  of  roses,  which  he  held  up  to  her 
admiring  gaze. 

"Very  beautiful! "  said  Gertrude,  as  she  glanced  at  the  little 
bunches,  covered  with  a  luxurious  growth  of  moss-rose  buds, 
both  pink  and  white. 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  fearing  to  awaken  Mr.  Graham. 
Mr.  Bruce,  therefore,  softening  his  to  a  whisper,  remarked,  as 
he  dangled  them  above  her  head,  "I  thought  they  were  pretty 
when  I  gathered  them,  but  they  suffer  from  the  comparison, 
Miss  Gertrude ; })  and  he  gave  a  meaning  look  at  the  roses  in 
her  cheeks. 

Gertrude,  to  whom  this  was  a  stale  compliment,  coming  from 
Mr.  Bruce,  took  no  notice  of  it,  but  rising,  advanced  to  make 
her  exit  by  the  front  door,  saying,  "  I  will  go  across  the  piazza, 
Mr.  Bruce,  and  send  the  ladies  word  that  you  are  here." 

"0,  pray  don't!  "  said  he,  putting  himself  in  her  way.  "It 
would  be  cruel;  I  haven't  the  slightest  wish  to  see  them." 

He  so  effectually  prevented  her,  that  she  was  unwillingly 
compelled  to  retreat  from  the  door  and  resume  her  seat.  As 
she  did  so,  she  took  her  work  from  her  pocket,  her  countenance 
in  the  mean  time  expressing  vexation. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  his  triumph,  and  took  advantage  of  it. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  he,  "will  you  oblige  me  by  wearing 
these  flowers  in  your  hair  to-day  ?  " 

"I  do  not  wear  gay  flowers,"  replied  Gertrude,  without  lift 
ing  her  eyes  from  the  piece  of  muslin  on  which  she  was  em 
ployed. 

Supposing  this  to  be  on  account  of  her  mourning  (for  she 
wore  a  plain  black  dress),  he  selected  the  white  buds  from  the 
rest,  and  presenting  them  to  her,  begged  that  for  his  sake  she 
would  display  them  in  contrast  with  her  dark  silken  braids. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Gertrude;  "I  never  saw 
more  beautiful  roses,  but  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  so  much 
dressed,  and  believe  you  must  excuse  me." 

"Then  you  won't  take  my  flowers? " 

"Certainly  I  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  she,  rising,  "if  you 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  237 

will  let  me  get  a  glass  of  water,  and  place  them  in  the  parlor, 
where  we  can  all  enjoy  them." 

"  I  did  not  cut  my  flowers  and  bring  them  here  for  the  bene 
fit  of  the  whole  household,"  said  Ben  in  a  half-offended  tone. 
"If  you  won't  wear  them,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  will  offer  them  to 
somebody  that  will." 

This,  he  thought,  would  alarm  her,  for  his  vanity  was  such 
that  he  attributed  her  behavior  wholly  to  coquetry,  and  as 
instances  of  this  sort  had  always  served  to  enhance  his  admira 
tion,  he  believed  that  they  were  intended  to  produce  that  effect. 
"I  will  punish  her,"  thought  he,  as  he  tied  the  roses  together 
again,  and  arranged  them  for  presentation  to  Kitty,  whom  he 
knew  would  be  flattered  to  receive  them. 

"Where's  Fanny  to-day?"  asked  Gertrude,  anxious  to 
divert  the  conversation. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Ben,  with  a  manner  which  im 
plied  that  he  had  no  idea  of  talking  about  Fanny. 

A  short  silence  ensued,  during  which  he  gazed  idly  at  Ger 
trude's  fingers,  as  she  sat  sewing. 

"How  attentive  you  are  to  your  work!"  said  he  at  last; 
"your  eyes  seem  nailed  to  it.  I  wish  I  were  as  attractive  as 
that  piece  of  muslin !  " 

"I  wish  you  were  as  inoffensive,"  thought  Gertrude. 

"I  do  not  think  you  take  much  pains  to  entertain  me," 
added  he,  "when  I  've  come  here  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

"I  thought  you  came  by  Mrs.  Graham's  invitation,"  said 
Gertrude. 

"And  didn't  I  have  to  court  Kitty  for  an  hour  in  order  to 
get  it?" 

"If  you  obtained  it  by  artifice,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling, 
"you  do  not  deserve  to  be  entertained." 

"It  is  much  easier  to  please  Kitty  than  you,"  remarked  Ben< 

"Kitty  is  very  amiable  and  pleasant,"  said  Gertrude. 

"Yes,  but  I  'd  give  more  for  one  smile  from  you  than  —  " 

Gertrude  now  interrupted  him  with,  "Ah,  here  is  an  old 
friend  coming  to  see  us;  please  let  me  pass,  Mr.  Bruce." 

The  gate  at  the  end  of  the  yard  swung  to  as  she  spoke,  and 
Ben,  looking  in  that  direction,  beheld  approaching  the  person 
whom  Gertrude  seemed  desirous  to  go  and  meet. 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  need  to  hurry,"  said  Ben;  "that 
little  crone,  whose  coming  seems  to  give  you  so  much  satisfac- 


238  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

tion,  can't  get  here  this  half  hour,  at  the  rate  she  is  travel 
ling." 

"She  is  an  old  friend,"  replied  Gertrude;  "I  must  go  and 
welcome  her."  Her  countenance  expressed  so  much  earnest 
ness  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  ashamed  to  persist  in  his  incivility, 
and  rising,  permitted  her  to  pass.  Miss  Patty  Pace  —  for  she 
it  was  who  was  toiling  up  the  yard  —  seemed  overjoyed  at  see 
ing  Gertrude,  and  the  moment  she  recognized  her,  commenced 
waving,  in  a  theatrical  manner,  a  huge  feather  fan,  her  favorite 
mode  of  salutation.  As  she  drew  near,  Miss  Patty  took  her 
by  both  hands,  and  stood  talking  with  her  some  minutes  before 
they  proceeded  together  up  the  yard.  They  entered  the  house 
at  the  side  door,  and  Ben,  being  thus  disappointed  of  Ger 
trude's  return,  sallied  out  into  the  garden,  in  hopes  to  attract 
the  notice  of  Kitty. 

Ben  Bruce  had  such  confidence  in  the  power  of  wealth  and 
a  high  station  in  fashionable  life,  that  it  never  occurred  to  him 
to  doubt  that  Gertrude  would  gladly  accept  his  hand  and  for 
tune,  if  it  were  placed  at  her  disposal.  No  degree  of  coldness, 
or  even  neglect  on  her  part,  would  have  induced  him  to  believe 
that  an  orphan  girl,  without  a  cent  in  the  world,  would  forego 
such  an  opportunity  to  establish  herself. 

Many  a  prudent  and  worldly-wise  mother  had  sought  his 
acquaintance;  many  a  young  lady,  even  among  those  who  pos 
sessed  property  and  rank  of  their  own,  had  received  his  atten 
tion  with  favor;  and  believing,  as  he  did,  that  he  had  money 
enough  to  purchase  for  a  wife  any  woman  whom  he  chose  to 
select,  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  that  Gertrude  would 
presume  to  hold  herself  higher  than  the  rest. 

He  had  not  made  his  mind  up  to  such  an  important  step, 
however,  as  the  deliberate  surrender  of  the  many  advantages 
of  which  he  was  the  fortunate  possessor.  He  had  merely  de 
termined  to  win  Gertrude's  good  opinion  and  affection;  and 
although  more  interested  in  her  than  he  was  aware  of  himself, 
he  at  present  made  that  his  ultimate  object.  He  felt  conscious 
that  as  yet  she  had  given  no  evidence  of  his  success ;  and  hav 
ing  resolved  to  resort  to  some  new  means  of  winning  her,  he, 
with  a  too  common  selfishness  and  baseness,  fixed  upon  a  method 
which  was  calculated,  if  successful,  to  end  in  the  mortification 
if  not  the  unhappiness  of  a  third  party.  He  intended,  by 
marked  devotion  to  Kitty  Ray,  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  Ger- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  239 

trude;  and  it  was  with  the  view  to  furthering  his  intentions 
that  he  walked  in  the  garden,  hoping  to  attract  her  observa 
tion. 

0 !  it  was  a  shameful  scheme !  for  Kitty  liked  him  already. 
She  was  a  warm-hearted  girl,  —  a  credulous  one  too,  and  likely 
to  become  a  ready  victim  to  his  duplicity. 


240  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

Is  this  the  world  of  which  we  want  a  sight  ? 
Are  these  the  beings  who  are  called  polite  ? 

HANNAH  MORE. 

A  HALF  hour  before  dinner,  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces, 
Mr.  Bruce,  his  sister  Fanny,  and  Lieutenant  Osborne,  as  they 
sat  in  the  large  parlor,  had  their  curiosity  much  excited  by 
the  merriment  which  seemed  to  exist  in  Emily's  room,  directly 
above.  It  was  not  noisy  or  rude,  but  strikingly  genuine. 
Gertrude's  clear  laugh  was  very  distinguishable,  and  even 
Emily  joined  frequently  in  the  outburst  which  would  every 
now  and  then  occur;  while  still  another  person  appeared  to  be 
of  the  party,  as  a  strange  and  most  singular  voice  occasionally 
mingled  with  the  rest. 

Kitty  ran  to  the  entry  two  or  three  times,  to  listen,  and 
hear,  if  possible,  the  subject  of  their  mirth,  and  at  last  returned 
with  the  announcement  that  Gertrude  was  coming  downstairs 
with  the  very  queen  of  witches. 

Presently  Gertrude  opened  the  door,  which  Kitty  had 
slammed  behind  her,  and  ushered  in  Miss  Patty  Pace,  who 
advanced  with  measured,  mincing  steps  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and 
stopping  in  front  of  her,  made  a  low  curtsy, 

"How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  half  inclined 
to  believe  that  Gertrude  was  playing  off  a  joke  upon  her. 

"This,  I  presume,  is  the  mistress,"  said  Miss  Patty. 

Mrs.  Graham  acknowledged  her  claim  to  that  title. 

"A  lady  of  presence!"  said  Miss  Patty  to  Gertrude  in  an 
audible  whisper,  pronouncing  each  syllable  with  a  manner  and 
emphasis  peculiar  to  herself.  Then  turning  towards  Belle,  who 
was  shrinking  into  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  she  approacjied  her, 
held  up  both  hands  in  astonishment,  and  exclaimed,  "Miss  Isa 
bella,  as  I  still  enjoy  existence!  and  radiant,  too,  as  the  morning! 
Bless  my  heart !  how  your  youthful  charms  have  expanded ! " 

Belle  had  recognized  Miss  Pace  the  moment  she  entered  the 
room,  but  with  foolish  pride  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  the 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  241 

acquaintance  of  so  eccentric  an  individual,  and  would  have  still 
feigned  ignorance,  but  Kitty  now  came  forward,  exclaiming, 
"  Why,  Miss  Pace,  where  did  you  come  from  ? " 

"Miss  Catharina,"  said  Miss  Pace,  taking  her  hands  in  an 
ecstasy  of  astonishment,  "then  you  knew  me/  Blessings  on 
your  memory  of  an  old  friend ! " 

"Certainly,  I  knew  you  in  a  minute;  you're  not  so  easily 
forgotten,  I  assure  you.  Belle,  don't  you  remember  Miss 
Pace  1  It 's  at  your  house  I  've  always  seen  her." 

"O,  is  it  she?"  said  Belle,  with  a  poor  attempt  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  she  had  any  previous  knowledge  of  a  person  who 
had  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  father's  house,  and  was  held 
in  esteem  by  both  her  parents. 

"I  apprehend,"  said  Miss  Patty  to  Kitty  in  the  same  loud 
whisper,  "that  she  carries  a  proud  heart."  Then,  without 
having  appeared  to  notice  the  gentlemen,  who  were  directly 
behind  her,  she  added,  "  Sparks,  I  see,  Miss  Catharina,  young 
sparks.  Whose  ?  —  yours,  or  hers  1 " 

Kitty  laughed,  for  she  saw  that  the  young  men  heard  her 
and  were  much  amused,  and  replied,  without  hesitation,  "0, 
mine,  Miss  Patty,  mine,  both  of  'em!"  Miss  Patty  now 
looked  round  the  room,  and  missing  Mr.  Graham,  advanced  to 
his  wife,  saying,  "And  where,  madam,  is  the  bridegroom?" 

Mrs.  Graham,  a  little  confused,  replied  that  her  husband 
would  be  in  presently,  and  invited  Miss  Pace  to  be  seated. 

"No,  mistress,  I  am  obliged  to  you;  I  have  an  inquiring 
mind,  and  with  your  leave  will  take  a  survey  of  the  apart 
ment.  I  love  to  see  everything  that  is  modern."  She  then 
proceeded  to  examine  the  pictures  upon  the  walls,  but  had  not 
proceeded  far  before  she  turned  to  Gertrude  and  asked,  still 
loud  enough  to  be  distinctly  heard,  "  Gertrude,  my  dear,  what 
have  they  done  with  the  second  wife  ?  "  Gertrude  looked  sur 
prised,  and  Miss  Pace  corrected  her  remark,  saying,  "  0,  it  is 
the  counterfeit  that  I  have  reference  to;  the  original,  I  am 
aware,  departed  long  since ;  but  where  is  the  counterfeit  of  the 
second  Mistress  Graham  ?  It  always  hung  here,  if  my  memory 
serves  me." 

Gertrude  whispered  a  reply  to  this  question,  and  Miss  Pace 
then  uttered  the  following  soliloquy:  "The  garret!  well,  'tis 
the  course  of  nature;  what  is  new  obliterates  the  recollection^ 
even,  of  the  old." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

She  now  linked  her  arm  in  Gertrude's,  and  made  her  the 
companion  of  her  survey.  When  they  had  completed  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  room,  she  stopped  in  front  of  the  group  of  young 
people,  all  of  whom  were  eyeing  her  with  great  amusement, 
claimed  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Bruce,  and  asked  to  be  intro 
duced  to  the  member  of  the  war  department,  as  she  styled 
Lieutenant  Osborne.  Kitty  introduced  her  with  great  formal 
ity,  and  at  the  same  time  presented  the  lieutenant  to  Gertrude, 
a  ceremony  which  she  felt  indignant  that  her  aunt  had  not 
thought  proper  to  perform.  A  chair  was  now  brought,  Miss 
Patty  joined  their  circle,  and  entertained  them  until  dinner 
time.  Gertrude  again  sought  Emily's  room. 

At  the  table,  Gertrude,  seated  next  to  Emily,  whose  wants 
she  always  made  her  care,  and  with  Miss  Patty  on  the  other 
side,  had  no  time  or  attention  to  bestow  on  any  one  else ;  much 
to  the  chagrin  of  Mr.  Bruce,  who  was  anxious  she  should  ob 
serve  his  assiduous  devotion  to  Kitty,  whose  hair  was  adorned 
with  moss-rose  buds  and  her  face  with  smiles. 

Belle  was  also  made  happy  by  the  marked  admiration  of  her 
young  officer,  and  no  one  felt  any  disposition  to  interfere  with 
either  of  the  well-satisfied  girls.  Occasionally,  however,  some 
remark  made  by  Miss  Pace  irresistibly  attracted  the  attention 
of  every  one  at  the  table,  and  extorted  either  the  laughter  it 
was  intended  to  excite,  or  a  mirth  which,  though  perhaps  ill 
timed,  it  was  impossible  to  repress. 

Mr.  Graham  treated  Miss  Patty  with  the  most  marked  polite 
ness  and  attention,  and  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  possessed  of 
great  suavity  of  manners  when  she  chose  to  exercise  it,  and 
who  loved  dearly  to  be  amused,  spared  no  pains  to  bring  out 
the  old  lady's  conversational  powers.  She  found,  too,  that 
Miss  Patty  was  acquainted  with  everybody,  and  made  most 
appropriate  and  amusing  comments  upon  almost  every  person 
who  became  the  topic  of  conversation.  Mr.  Graham  at  last 
led  her  to  speak  of  herself  and  her  lonely  mode  of  life;  and 
Fanny  Bruce,  who  sat  next,  asked  her  bluntly  why  she  never 
got  married. 

"Ah,  my  young  miss,"  said  she,  "we  all  wait  our  time,  and 
I  may  take  a  companion  yet." 

"You  should,"  said  Mr.  Graham.  "Now  you  have  property, 
Miss  Pace,  and  ought  to  share  it  with  some  nice,  thrifty  man." 
Mr.  Graham  knew  her  weak  point. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  243 

"I  have  but  an  insignificant  trifle  of  worldly  wealth,"  said 
Miss  Pace,  "and  am  not  as  youthful  as  I  have  been;  but  I  may 
suit  myself  with  a  companion,  notwithstanding.  I  approve  of 
matrimony,  and  have  my  eye  upon  a  young  man." 

"A  young  man  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  Bruce,  laughing. 

"0,  yes,  Miss  Frances,"  said  Miss  Patty;  "I  am  an  admirer 
of  youth,  and  of  everything  that  is  modern.  Yes,  I  cling  to 
life  — I  cling  to  life." 

"Certainly,"  remarked  Mrs.  Graham,  "Miss  Pace  must 
marry  somebody  younger  than  herself;  some  one  to  whom  she 
can  leave  all  her  property,  if  he  should  happen  to  outlive  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Graham;  "at  present  you  would  not  know 
how  to  make  a  will,  unless  you  left  all  your  money  to  Gertrude, 
here ;  I  rather  think  she  would  make  a  good  use  of  it. " 

"That  would  certainly  be  a  consideration  to  me,"  said  Miss 
Pace;  "I  should  dread  the  thought  of  having  my  little  savings 
squandered.  Now  I  know  there  's  more  than  a  sufficiency  of 
pauper  population,  and  plenty  that  would  be  glad  of  legacies; 
but  I  have  no  intention  of  bestowing  on  such.  Why,  sir,  nine 
tenths  of  them  will  always  be  poor.  No,  no !  I  should  n't  give 
to  such!  No,  no!  I  have  other  intentions." 

"Miss  Pace, "asked  Mr.  Graham,  "what  has  become  of  Gen 
eral  Pace's  family?" 

"All  dead!"  replied  Miss  Patty  promptly,  "all  dead!  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave  of  that  branch  of  the  family. 
It  was  a  melancholy  and  touching  scene,"  continued  she  in  a 
pathetic  tone  of  voice.  "There  was  a  piece  of  grassy  ground, 
belted  about  with  an  iron  railing,  and  in  the  centre  a  beautiful 
white  marble  monument,  in  which  they  were  all  buried ;  it  was 
pure  as  alabaster,  and  on  it  was  inscribed  these  lines :  — 

'PACE.'" 

"  What  were  the  lines  1 "  inquired  Mrs.  Graham,  who  be 
lieved  her  ears  had  deceived  her. 

"Pace,  ma'am,  Pace;  nothing  else." 

Solemn  as  was  the  subject,  a  universal  titter  pervaded  the 
circle;  and  Mrs.  Graham,  perceiving  that  Kitty  and  Fanny 
would  soon  burst  into  uncontrollable  fits  of  laughter,  made  the 
move  for  the  company  to  quit  the  table. 

The  gentlemen  did  not  care  to  linger,  and  followed  the  ladies 
into  the  wide  entry,  the  refreshing  coolness  of  which  invited 


244  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

every  one  to  loiter  there  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  Miss 
Patty  and  Fanny  Bruce  compelled  the  unwilling  Gertrude  to 
join  the  group  there  assembled;  and  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was 
never  disposed  to  forego  her  afternoon  nap,  was  the  only  mem 
ber  of  the  family  who  absented  herself. 

So  universal  was  the  interest  Miss  Patty  excited,  that  all 
private  dialogue  was  suspended,  and  close  attention  given  to 
whatever  topic  the  old  lady  was  discussing. 

Belle  maintained  a  slightly  scornful  expression  of  counte 
nance,  and  tried,  with  partial  success,  to  divert  Lieutenant 
Osbome's  thoughts  into  another  channel;  but  Kitty  was  so 
delighted  with  Miss  Pace's  originality,  that  she  made  no  at 
tempt  at  any  exclusive  conversation,  and  with  Mr.  Bruce  sitting 
beside  her  and  joining  in  her  amusement,  looked  more  than 
contented. 

Dress  and  fashion,  two  favorite  themes  with  Miss  Patty, 
were  now  introduced,  and  after  discoursing  at  some  length  upon 
her  love  of  the  beautiful,  as  witnessed  in  the  mantua-making 
and  millinery  arts,  she  deliberately  left  her  seat,  and  going 
towards  Belle  (the  only  one  of  the  company  who  seemed  desir 
ous  to  avoid  her),  began  to  examine  the  material  of  her  dress, 
and  finally  requested  her  to  rise  and  permit  her  to  further  in 
spect  the  mode  in  which  it  was  made,  declaring  the  description 
of  so  modern  and  finished  a  masterpiece  of  art  would  be  a  feast 
to  the  ears  of  some  of  her  junior  acquaintances. 

Belle  indignantly  refused  to  comply,  and  shook  off  the  hand 
of  the  old  lady  as  if  there  had  been  contamination  in  her  touch. 

"Do  stand  up,  Belle,"  said  Kitty  in  an  undertone.  "Don't 
be  so  cross." 

"Why  don't  you  stand  up  yourself,"  said  Belle,  "and  show 
off  your  own  dress,  for  the  benefit  of  her  low  associates  ? " 

"She  didn't  ask  me  to,"  replied  Kitty,  "but  I  will,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure,  if  she  will  condescend  to  look  at  it.  Miss 
Pace,"  continued  she  gayly,  placing  herself  in  front  of  the 
inquisitive  Miss  Patty,  "  do  admire  my  gown  at  your  leisure, 
and  take  a  pattern  of  it,  if  you  like;  I  should  be  proud  of  the 
honor." 

For  a  wonder,  Kitty's  dress  was  pretty  and  well  worthy  of 
observation.  Miss  Patty  made  many  comments,  especially  on 
the  train,  as  she  denominated  its  unnecessary  and  inconvenient 
length,  and  then,  her  curiosity  being  satisfied,  commenced  re- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  245 

treating  towards  the  place  she  had  left,  first  glancing  behind 
her  to  see  if  it  was  still  vacant,  and  then  moving  towards  it 
with  a  backward  motion,  consisting  of  a  series  of  curtsies. 

Fanny  Bruce,  who  stood  near,  observing  that  she  had  made 
an  exact  calculation  how  many  steps  would  be  required  to  reach 
her  seat,  placed  her  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  as  if  to  draw 
it  away;  and  encouraged  by  a  look  and  smile  from  Isabel, 
moved  it  slightly,  but  still  enough  to  endanger  the  old  lady's 
safety. 

On  attempting  to  regain  it,  Miss  Pace  stumbled,  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  Gertrude,  who  had  been  watching  Fanny's 
proceedings,  sprung  forward  in  time  to  fling  an  arm  around 
her  and  place  her  safely  in  the  chair,  casting  at  the  same  time 
a  reproachful  look  at  Fanny,  who,  much  confused,  turned  to 
avoid  Gertrude's  gaze,  and  in  doing  so  accidentally  trod  on  Mr. 
Graham's  gouty  toes,  which  drew  from  him  an  exclamation  of 
pain. 

"Fan,7'  said  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  observed  the  latter  accident 
only,  "I  wish  you  could  learn  politeness." 

"  Who  am  I  to  learn  it  from  ?  "  asked  Fanny  pertly.    "  You  ?  " 

Ben  looked  provoked,  but  forbore  to  reply;  while  Miss 
Pace,  who  had  now  recovered  her  composure,  took  up  the  word 
and  said,  — 

"Politeness!  Ah,  a  lovely  but  rare  virtue;  perceptibly  de 
veloped,  however,  in  the  manners  of  my  friend  Gertrude,  which 
I  hesitate  not  to  affirm  would  well  become  a  princess." 

Belle  curled  her  lip  and  smiled  disdainfully.  "Lieutenant 
Osborne,"  said  she,  "don't  you  think  Miss  Devereux  has  beau 
tiful  manners  1 " 

"  Very  fine,"  replied  the  lieutenant.  " The  style  in  which  she 
receives  company,  on  her  reception  da)7,  is  elegance  itself." 

"  Who  are  you  speaking  of  1 "  inquired  Kitty ;  "  Mrs.  Harry 
Noble  ? " 

"Miss  Devereux  we  were  remarking  upon,"  said  Belle,  "but 
Mrs.  Noble  is  also  very  stylish." 

"I  think  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Bruce.  "Do  you  hear,  Fanny? 
We  have  found  a  model  for  you  ;  you  must  imitate  Mrs. 
Noble." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Mrs.  Noble,"  retorted  Fanny. 
"I'd  rather  imitate  Miss  Flint.  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  she, 
with  a  seriousness  which  Gertrude  rightly  believed  was  intended 


246  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

to  express  regret  for  her  late  rudeness,  "how  shall  I  learn 
politeness  ? " 

"Do  you  remember,"  asked  Gertrude,  speaking  low,  and 
giving  Fanny  a  look  full  of  meaning,  "  what  your  music  master 
told  you  about  learning  to  play  with  expression?  I  should 
give  you  the  same  rule  for  improvement  in  politeness." 

Fanny  blushed  deeply. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Graham.  "  Let  us  know,  Fanny. 
What  is  Gertrude's  rule  for  politeness." 

"She  only  said,"  answered  Fanny,  "that  it  was  the  same  my 
music  master  gave  me  last  winter." 

"And  what  did  he  say  ?  "  inquired  her  brother  with  a  tone  of 
interest. 

"I  asked  Mr.  Hermann,"  said  Fanny,  "how  I  should  learn 
to  play  with  expression,  and  he  said,  '  You  must  cultivate 
your  heart,  Miss  Bruce ;  you  must  cultivate  your  heart. '  " 

This  new  direction  for  the  attainment  of  a  great  accomplish 
ment  was  received  with  countenances  that  indicated  as  great  a 
variety  of  sentiment  as  there  was  difference  of  character  among 
Fanny's  audience.  Mr.  Graham  bit  his  lip,  and  walked  away, 
for  his  politeness  was  founded  on  no  such  rule,  and  he  knew 
that  Gertrude's  was.  Belle  looked  glorious  disdain;  Mr. 
Bruce  and  Kitty,  puzzled  and  half  amused,  while  Lieutenant 
Osborne  proved  himself  not  quite  callous  to  a  noble  truth,  by 
turning  upon  Gertrude  a  glance  of  admiration  and  interest. 
Emily's  face  evidenced  how  fully  she  coincided  in  the  opinion 
thus  unintentionally  made  public,  and  Miss  Patty  unhesitat 
ingly  expressed  her  approbation. 

"Miss  Gertrude's  remark  is  undeniably  a  verity,"  said  she. 
"The  only  politeness  which  is  trustworthy  is  the  spontaneous 
offering  of  the  heart.  Perhaps  this  goodly  company  of  masters 
and  misses  would  condescend  to  give  ear  to  an  old  woman's 
tale  of  a  rare  instance  of  true  politeness,  and  the  fitting  reward 
it  met." 

All  professed  a  strong  desire  to  hear  Miss  Patty's  story,  and 
she  began : — 

"On  a  winter's  day,  some  years  ago,  an  old  woman  of  many 
foibles  and  besetting  weaknesses,  but  with  a  keen  eye  and  her 
share  of  worldly  wisdom,  —  Miss  Patty  Pace  by  name,  — 
started  by  special  invitation  for  the  house  of  one  worshipful 
Squire  Clinton,  the  honored  parent  of  Miss  Isabella,  the  fair 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  247 

damsel  yonder.  Every  tall  tree  in  our  good  city  was  spangled 
with  frost-work,  more  glittering  far  than  gems  that  sparkle  in 
Golconda's  mine,  and  the  sidewalks  were  a  snare  to  the  feet  of 
the  old  and  the  unwary. 

"I  lost  my  equilibrium,  and  fell.  Two  gallant  gentlemen 
lifted  and  carried  me  to  a  neighboring  apothecary's  emporium, 
restored  my  scattered  wits,  and  revived  me  with  a  fragrant 
cordial.  I  went  on  my  way  with  many  a  misgiving,  however, 
and  scarcely  should  I  have  reached  my  destination  with  bones 
unbroken,  had  it  not  been  for  a  knight  with  a  rosy  counte 
nance,  who  overtook  me,  placed  my  old  arm  within  his  own 
more  strong  and  youthful  one,  and  protected  my  steps  to  the 
very  end  of  my  journey.  No  slight  courage  either,  my  young 
misses,  did  my  noble  escort  need,  to  carry  him  through  what 
he  had  undertaken.  Paint  to  your  imaginations  a  youth  fresh 
and  beautiful  as  a  sunbeam,  straight  as  an  arrow,  —  a  perfect 
Apollo,  indeed,  —  linked  to  the  little  bent  body  of  poor  Miss 
Patty  Pace.  I  will  not  spare  myself,  young  ladies;  for  had 
you  seen  me  then,  you  would  consider  me  now  vastly  amelio 
rated  in  outward  presentment.  My  double  row  of  teeth  were 
stowed  away  in  my  pocket,  my  frizette  was  pushed  back  from 
my  head  by  my  recent  fall,  and  my  gogs  —  the  same  my  father 
wore  before  me  —  covered  my  face,  and  they  alone  attracted 
attention,  and  created  some  excitement.  But  he  went  on  un 
moved;  and  in  spite  of  many  a  captivating  glance  and  smile 
from  long  rows  of  beautiful  young  maidens  whom  we  met,  and 
many  a  sneer  from  the  youths  of  his  own  age,  he  sustained  my 
feeble  form  with  as  much  care  as  if  I  had  been  an  empress, 
and  accommodated  his  buoyant  step  to  the  slow  movement 
which  my  infirmities  compelled.  Ah!  what  a  spirit  of  con 
formity  he  manifested !  —  my  knight  of  the  rosy  countenance ! 
Could  you  have  seen  him,  Miss  Catharina,  or  you,  Miss  Frances, 
your  palpitating  hearts  would  have  taken  flight  forever.  He 
was  a  paragon,  indeed. 

"  Whither  his  own  way  tended  I  cannot  say,  for  he  moved 
in  conformity  to  mine,  and  left  me  not  until  I  was  safe  at  the 
abode  of  Mistress  Clinton.  I  hardly  think  he  coveted  my  old 
heart,  but  I  sometimes  believe  it  followed  him;  for  truly  he  is 
still  a  frequent  subject  of  my  meditations." 

"Ah!  then  that  was  his  reward!  "  exclaimed  Kitty. 

"  Not  so,  Miss  Kitty ;  guess  again. " 


248  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  so  desirable,  Miss  Patty." 

"His  fortune  in  life,  Miss  Catharina.  That  was  his  re 
ward;  it  may  be  that  he  cannot  yet  estimate  the  full  amount 
of  his  recompense." 

"  How  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"I  will  briefly  narrate  the  rest.  Mistress  Clinton  encour 
aged  me  always  to  converse  much  in  her  presence.  She  knew 
my  taste,  was  disposed  to  humor  me,  and  I  was  pleased  to  be 
indulged.  I  told  my  story,  and  enlarged  upon  the  merits  of 
my  noble  youth,  and  his  wonderful  spirit  of  conformity.  The 
squire,  a  gentleman  who  estimates  good  breeding,  was  present, 
with  his  ears  open;  and  when  I  recommended  my  knight  with 
all  the  eloquence  I  could  command,  he  was  amused,  interested, 
pleased.  He  promised  to  see  the  boy,  and  did  so;  the  noble 
features  spake  for  themselves,  and  gained  him  a  situation  as 
clerk,  from  which  he  has  since  advanced  in  the  ranks,  until 
now  he  occupies  the  position  of  partner  and  confidential  agent 
in  a  creditable  and  wealthy  house.  Miss  Isabella^  it  would 
rejoice  my  heart  to  hear  the  latest  tidings  from  Mr.  William 
Sullivan." 

"He  is  well,  I  believe,"  said  Isabella  sulkily.  "I  know 
nothing  to  the  contrary." 

"0,  Gertrude  knows,"  said  Fanny.  "Gertrude  knows  all 
about  Mr.  Sullivan ;  she  will  tell  you. " 

All  turned  and  looked  at  Gertrude,  who,  with  face  flushed 
and  eyes  glistening  with  the  interest  she  felt  in  Miss  Patty's 
narrative,  stood  leaning  upon  Emily's  chair.  Miss  Patty  now 
appealed  to  her,  much  surprised,  however,  at  her  having  any 
knowledge  of  her  much-admired  and  well-remembered  young 
escort.  Gertrude  drew  near,  and  answered  all  her  questions 
without  the  least  hesitation  or  embarrassment,  but  in  a  tone  of 
voice  so  low  that  the  others,  most  of  whom  felt  no  interest  in 
Willie,  entered  into  conversation,  and  left  her  and  Miss  Patty 
to  discourse  freely  concerning  a  mutual  friend. 

Gertrude  gave  Miss  Pace  a  brief  account  of  the  wonder  and 
curiosity  which  Willie  and  his  friends  had  felt  concerning  the 
original  author  of  his  good  fortune;  and  the  old  lady  was  so 
entertained  and  delighted  at  hearing  of  the  various  conjectures 
and  doubts  which  arose  on  the  reception  of  Mr.  Clinton's  un 
expected  summons,  and  of  the  matter  being  finally  attributed 
to  the  agency  of  Santa  Claus,  that  her  laugh  was  nearly  as 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  249 

loud,  and  quite  as  heartfelt,  as  that  of  the  gay  party  near  the 
doorstep,  whom  Kitty  and  Fanny  had  excited  to  unusual  mer 
riment.  Miss  Pace  was  just  taxing  Gertrude  with  interminable 
compliments  and  messages  of  remembrance  to  be  dispatched  in 
her  next  letter  to  Willie,  when  Mrs.  Graham  presented  herself, 
refreshed  both  in  dress  and  countenance  since  her  nap,  and 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  whole  company,  by  exclaiming, 
in  her  abrupt  manner  and  loud  tones,  — 

"What!  are  you  all  here  still?  I  thought  you  were  bound 
for  a  walk  in  the  woods.  Kitty,  what  has  become  of  your 
cherished  scheme  of  climbing  Sunset  Hill  ? " 

"I  proposed  it,  aunt,  an  hour  ago,  but  Belle  insisted  it  was 
too  warm.  /  think  the  weather  is  just  right  for  a  walk." 

"It  will  soon  be  growing  cool,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  "and  I 
think  you  had  better  start;  it  is  some  distance  if  you  go  round 
through  the  woods." 

"Who  knows  the  way?"  asked  Kitty. 

No  one  responded  to  the  question,  and  on  being  individually 
appealed  to,  all  professed  total  ignorance;  much  to  the  aston 
ishment  of  Gertrude,  who  believed  that  every  part  of  the 
woody  ground  and  hill  beyond  were  familiar  to  Mr.  Bruce. 
She  did  not  stay,  however,  to  hear  any  further  discussion  of 
their  plans;  for  Emily  was  beginning  to  suffer  from  headache 
and  weariness,  and  Gertrude,  perceiving  it,  insisted  that  she 
should  seek  the  quiet  of  her  own  room,  to  which  she  herself 
accomDanied  her.  She  was  just  closing  the  chamber  door, 
when  Fanny  called  from  the  staircase,  "Miss  Gertrude,  ain't 
you  going  to  walk  with  us  ? " 

"No,"  replied  Gertrude,  "not  to-day." 

"Then  I  won't  go,"  said  Fanny,  "if  you  don't.  Why 
don't  you  go,  Miss  Gertrude?  " 

"I  shall  walk  with  Miss  Emily  by  and  by,  if  she  is  well 
enough;  you  can  accompany  us,  if  you  like,  but  I  think  you 
would  enjoy  going  to  Sunset  Hill  much  more." 

Meantime  a  whispered  consultation  took  place  below,  in 
which  some  one  suggested  that  Gertrude  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  path  which  the  party  wished  to  follow  through  the 
woods.  Belle  opposed  her  being  invited  to  join  them;  Kitty 
hesitated  between  her  liking  for  Gertrude  and  her  fears  regard 
ing  Mr.  Bruce's  allegiance;  Lieutenant  Osborne  forbore  to  urge 
what  Belle  disapproved;  and  Mr.  Bruce  remained  silent,  trust* 


250  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ing  to  the  final  necessity  of  her  being  invited  to  act  as  guide, 
in  which  capacity  he  had  purposely  concealed  his  own  ability 
to  serve.  This  necessity  was  so  obvious  that,  as  he  had  fore 
seen,  Kitty  was  at  last  dispatched  to  find  Gertrude  and  make 
known  their  request. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  251 


CHAPTER   XXX 

There  are  haughty  steps  that  would  walk  the  globe 
O'er  necks  of  humbler  ones. 

Miss  L.  P.  SMITH. 

GERTRUDE  would  have  declined,  and  made  her  attendance 
upon  Emily  an  excuse  for  non-compliance;  but  Emily  herself, 
believing  that  the  exercise  would  be  beneficial  to  Gertrude, 
interfered,  and  begged  her  to  agree  to  Kitty's  apparently  very 
cordial  proposal;  and  on  the  latter's  declaring  that  the  expedi 
tion  must  otherwise  be  given  up,  she  consented  to  join  it.  To 
change  her  slippers  for  thick  walking-boots  occupied  a  few 
minutes  only ;  a  few  more  were  spent  in  a  vain  search  for  her  flat 
hat,  which  was  missing  from  the  closet  where  it  usually  hung. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ? "  said  Emily,  hearing  Gertrude 
once  or  twice  open  and  shut  the  door  of  the  large  closet  at  the 
end  of  the  upper  entry. 

"My  hat;  but  I  don't  see  it.  I  believe  I  shall  have  to 
borrow  your  sunbonnet  again,"  and  she  took  up  a  white  sun- 
bonnet,  the  same  she  had  worn  in  the  morning,  and  which  now 
lay  on  the  bed. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  Emily. 

"I  shall  begin  to  think  it's  mine,  before  long,"  said  Ger 
trude  gayly,  as  she  ran  off;  "I  wear  it  so  much  more  than 
you  do."  She  found  Fanny  waiting  for  her;  the  rest  of  the 
party  had  started,  and  were  some  distance  down  the  road, 
nearly  out  of  sight.  Emily  now  called  from  the  staircase, 
"  Gertrude,  my  child,  have  you  thick  shoes  ?  It  is  always  very 
wet  in  the  meadow  beyond  the  Thornton  place."  Gertrude 
assured  her  that  she  had ;  but  fearing  that  the  others  were  less 
carefully  equipped,  inquired  of  Mrs.  Graham  whether  Belle 
and  Kitty  were  insured  against  the  dampness,  possibly  the 
mud,  they  might  encounter. 

Mrs.  Graham  declared  they  were  not,  and  was  at  a  loss  what 
to  do,  as  they  were  now  quite  out  of  sight,  and  it  would  be  so 
much  trouble  for  them  to  return. 


252  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"I  have  some  very  light  India  rubbers,"  said  Gertrude;  "I 
will  take  them  with  me,  and  Fanny  and  I  shall  be  in  time  to 
warn  them  before  they  come  to  the  place." 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  overtake  Belle  and  the  lieutenant, 
for  they  walked  very  slowly,  and  seemed  not  unwilling  to  be 
left  in  the  rear.  The  reverse,  however,  was  the  case  with  Mr. 
Bruce  and  Kitty,  who  appeared  purposely  to  keep  in  advance; 
Kitty  hastening  her  steps  from  her  reluctance  to  allow  an  agree 
able  tete-k-tete  to  be  interfered  with,  and  Ben  from  a  desire 
to  occupy  such  a  position  as  would  give  Gertrude  a  fair  oppor 
tunity  to  observe  his  devotion  to  Kitty,  which  increased  the 
moment  she  came  in  sight  whose  jealousy  he  was  desirous  to 
arouse. 

They  had  now  passed  the  Thornton  farm,  and  only  one  field 
separated  them  from  the  meadow,  which,  covered  with  grass 
and  fair  to  the  eye,  was  nevertheless  in  the  centre  a  complete 
quagmire,  and  only  passable,  even  for  the  thickly  shod,  by 
keeping  close  to  the  wall,  and  thus  skirting  the  field.  Ger 
trude  and  Fanny  were  some  distance  behind,  and  already  nearly 
out  of  breath  with  a  pursuit  in  which  the  others  had  gained 
so  great  an  advantage.  As  they  were  passing  the  farmhouse, 
Mrs.  Thornton  appeared  at  the  door  and  addressed  Gertrude, 
who,  foreseeing  that  she  should  be  detained  some  minutes,  bade 
Fanny  run  on,  acquaint  her  brother  and  Kitty  with  the  nature 
of  the  soil  in  advance,  and  beg  them  to  wait  at  the  bars  until 
the  rest  of  the  party  came  up.  Fanny  was  too  late,  notwith 
standing  the  haste  she  made ;  they  were  half  across  the  meadow 
when  she  reached  the  bars,  proceeding,  however,  in  perfect 
safety,  for  Mr.  Bruce  was  conducting  Kitty  by  the  only  prac 
ticable  path,  close  under  the  wall,  proving  to  Gertrude,  who  in 
a  few  moments  joined  Fanny,  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the 
place.  When  they  were  about  halfway  across,  they  seemed 
to  encounter  some  obstacle,  for  Kitty  stood  poised  on  one  foot 
and  clinging  to  the  wall,  while  Mr.  Bruce  placed  a  few  step 
ping-stones  across  the  path.  He  then  helped  her  over,  and 
they  went  on,  their  figures  soon  disappearing  in  the  grove 
beyond. 

Isabel  and  the  lieutenant  were  so  long  making  their  appear 
ance  that  Fanny  became  very  impatient,  and  urged  Gertrude 
to  leave  them  to  their  fate.  They  at  last  turned  the  corner 
near  the  farmhouse,  and  came  on,  Belle  maintaining  her  lei- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  253 

surely  pace,  although  it  was  easy  to  be  seen  that  the  others 
were  waiting  for  her. 

"  Are  you  lame,  Miss  Clinton  1  "  called  out  Fanny,  as  soon 
as  they  were  within  hearing. 

"  Lame !  "  said  Belle ;   "  what  do  you  mean  1 " 

"Why,  you  walk  so  slow,"  said  Fanny,  "I  thought  some 
thing  must  be  the  matter  with  your  feet." 

Belle  disdained  any  reply  to  this,  and  tossing  her  head  en 
tered  the  damp  meadow,  in  close  conversation  with  her  devoted 
young  officer,  not  deigning  even  to  look  at  Gertrude,  who, 
without  appearing  to  notice  her  haughtiness,  took  Fanny's 
hand,  and  turning  away  from  the  direct  path  to  make  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  field,  said  to  Belle,  with  an  unruffled  ease  and  cour 
tesy  of  manner,  "This  way,  if  you  please,  Miss  Clinton;  we 
have  been  waiting  to  guide  you  through  this  wet  meadow. " 

"Is  it  wet?"  asked  Belle  in  alarm,  glancing  down  at  her 
delicate  slipper.  She  then  added  in  a  provoked  tone,  "I  should 
have  thought  you  would  have  known  better  than  to  bring  us 
this  way.  I  sha'n't  go  across." 

"Then  you  can  go  back,"  said  the  pert  Fanny;  "nobody 
cares. " 

"It  was  not  my  proposition,"  remarked  Gertrude  mildly, 
though  with  a  heightened  color,  "but  I  think  I  can  help  you 
through  the  difficulty.  Mrs.  Graham  was  afraid  you  had  worn 
thin  shoes,  and  I  brought  you  a  pair  of  India  rubbers." 

Belle  took  them,  and  without  the  grace  to  express  any  thanks 
said,  as  she  unfolded  the  paper  in  which  they  were  wrapped, 
"  Whose  are  they  ?  " 

"Mine,"  replied  Gertrude. 

"I  don't  believe  I  can  keep  them  on,"  muttered  Belle; 
"they  '11  be  immense,  I  suppose." 

"Allow  me,"  said  the  lieutenant;  and  taking  one  of  the 
shoes  he  stooped  to  place  it  on  her  foot,  but  found  it  difficult 
to  do  so,  as  it  proved  quite  too  small.  Belle,  perceiving  this 
to  be  the  case,  bent  down  to  perform  the  office  for  herself,  and 
treated  Gertrude's  property  with  such  angry  violence  that  she 
snapped  the  slender  strap  which  passed  across  the  instep,  and 
even  then  only  succeeded  in  partially  forcing  her  foot  into  the 
shoe. 

Meantime,  as  she  bent  forward,  Fanny's  attention  was  at 
tracted  by  a  very  tasteful  broad-brimmed  hat,  which  she  wore 


254  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

jauntily  set  on  one  side  of  her  head,  and  which  Fanny  at  once 
recognized  as  Gertrude's.  It  was  a  somewhat  fanciful  article 
of  dress,  that  Gertrude  would  hardly  have  thought  of  purchas 
ing  for  herself,  but  which  Mr.  Graham  had  selected  and  brought 
home  to  her  the  previous  summer,  to  replace  a  common  garden 
hat  which  he  had  accidentally  crushed  and  ruined.  As  the 
style  of  it  was  simple  and  in  good  taste,  she  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  wearing  it  often  in  her  country  walks,  and  usually 
kept  it  hung  in  the  entry  closet,  where  it  had  been  found  and 
appropriated  by  Belle.  It  had  been  seen  by  Fanny  in  Ger 
trude's  room  at  Mrs.  Warren's;  she  had  also  been  permitted 
to  wear  it  on  one  occasion,  when  she  took  part  in  a  charade, 
and  could  not  be  mistaken  as  to  its  identity.  Having  heard 
Gertrude  remark  to  Emily  upon  its  being  missing,  she  was  as 
tonished  to  see  it  adorning  Belle;  and  as  she  stood  behind  her, 
deliberately  pointed,  made  signs  to  Gertrude,  opened  her  eyes, 
distorted  her  countenance,  and  performed  a  series  of  panto 
mimic  gestures  expressive  of  an  intention  to  snatch  it  from 
Miss  Clinton's  head,  and  place  it  on  that  of  its  rightful  owner. 

Gertrude's  gravity  nearly  gave  way;  she  shook  her  head  at 
Fanny,  held  up  her  finger,  made  signs  for  her  to  forbear,  and 
with  a  face  whose  laughter  was  only  concealed  by  the  deep 
white  bonnet  which  she  wore,  took  her  hand,  and  hastened 
with  her  along  the  path,  leaving  Belle  and  beau  to  follow. 

"Fanny,"  said  she,  "you  must  not  make  me  laugh  so;  if 
Miss  Clinton  had  seen  us,  she  would  have  been  very  much 
hurt." 

"She  has  no  business  to  wear  your  hat,"  said  Fanny;  "and 
she  sha'n't!" 

"Yes,  she  shall,"  replied  Gertrude;  "she  looks  beautifullj 
in  it.  I  am  delighted  to  have  her  wear  it,  and  you  must  not 
intimate  to  her  that  it  is  mine." 

Fanny  would  not  promise,  and  there  was  a  sly  look  in  her 
eye  which  prophesied  mischief. 

The  walk  through  the  woods  was  delightful,  and  Gertrude 
and  her  young  companion,  in  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  it,  had 
almost  forgotten  that  they  were  members  of  a  gay  party,  when 
they  suddenly  came  in  sight  of  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce.  They 
were  pitting  at  the  foot  of  an  old  oak,  Kitty  earnestly  engaged 
in  the  manufacture  of  an  oak  wreath,  which  she  was  just  fitting 
to  her  attendant's  hat;  while  he  himself,  when  Gertrude  first 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  255 

caught  sight  of  him,  was  leaning  against  the  tree  in  a  care 
less,  listless  attitude.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  perceived  their 
approach,  he  bent  forward,  inspected  Kitty's  work,  and  when 
they  came  within  hearing,  was  uttering  a  profusion  of  thanks 
and  compliments,  which  he  took  care  should  reach  Gertrude's 
ears,  and  which  the  blushing,  smiling  Kitty  received  with  man 
ifest  pleasure,  —  a  pleasure  which  was  still  further  enhanced 
by  her  perceiving  that  Gertrude  had  apparently  no  power  to 
withdraw  his  attention  from  her,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  he 
permitted  her  rival  to  seat  herself  at  a  distance,  and  continued 
to  pour  into  her  own  ear  little  confidential  nothings.  Poor, 
simple  Kitty!  she  believed  him  honest,  while  he  bought  her 
heart  with  counterfeits. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Fanny,  "I  wish  we  could  go  into 
some  pine  woods,  so  that  I  could  get  some  cones  to  make  bas 
kets  and  frames  of." 

"There  are  plenty  of  pines  in  that  direction,"  said  Gertrude, 
pointing  with  her  finger. 

"Why  can't  we  go  and  look  for  cones? "  asked  Fanny;  "we 
could  get  back  by  the  time  Belle  Clinton  reaches  this  place." 

Gertrude  professed  her  willingness  to  do  so,  and  she  and 
Fanny  started  off,  having  first  tied  their  bonnets  to  the  branch 
of  a  tree.  They  were  gone  some  time,  for  Fanny  found  plenty 
of  cones,  and  made  a  large  collection  of  them,  but  was  then  at 
a  loss  how  to  carry  them  home.  "I  have  thought,"  said  she 
at  last;  "I  will  run  back  and  borrow  brother  Ben's  handker 
chief,  or  if  he  won't  let  me  have  it,  I  '11  take  my  own  bonnet 
and  fill  it  full."  Gertrude  promised  to  await  her  return,  and 
she  ran  off.  When  she  came  near  the  spot  where  she  had  left 
Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce,  she  heard  several  voices  and  loud  laugh 
ter.  Belle  and  the  lieutenant  had  arrived,  and  they  were  hav 
ing  great  sport  about  something.  Belle  was  standing  with  the 
white  cape  bonnet  in  her  hand.  She  had  bent  it  completely 
out  of  shape,  so  as  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  an  old  woman's 
cap,  had  adorned  the  front  with  whiteweed  and  dandelions, 
and  finally  pinned  on  a  handkerchief  to  serve  as  a  veil.  It 
certainly  looked  very  ridiculous;  she  was  holding  it  up  on  the 
end  of  the  lieutenant's  cane,  and  endeavoring  to  obtain  a  bid 
for  Miss  Flint's  bridal  bonnet. 

Fanny  listened  a  moment  with  an  indignant  countenance, 
then  advanced  with  a  bound,  as  if  just  running  from  the  woods. 


256  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Kitty  caught  her  frock  as  she  passed,  and  exclaimed,  "Why, 
Fanny,  are  you  here  ?  Where  's  Gertrude  ?  " 

"0,  she's  in  the  pine  woods!"  replied  Fanny,  "and  I'm 
going  right  back;  she  only  sent  me  to  get  her  hat,  the  sun's 
so  warm  where  we  are." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Belle,  "her  Paris  hat.  Please  give  it  to 
her,  with  our  compliments." 

"No,  that  isn't  hers,"  said  Fanny;  "that  is  Miss  Emily's. 
This  is  hers ; "  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  straw  head 
dress  which  the  gentlemen  had  but  a  moment  before  been 
assuring  Belle  was  vastly  becoming,  and  without  ceremony 
snatched  it  from  her  head. 

Belle's  eyes  flashed  angrily.  "What  do  you  mean?"  said 
she,  "  you  saucy  little  creature !  Give  me  that  hat !  "  and  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  take  it. 

"I  sha'n't  do  any  such  thing,"  said  Fanny;  "it 's  Gertrude's 
hat.  She  looked  for  it  this  afternoon,  but  concluded  it  was 
either  lost  or  stolen,  and  so  borrowed  Miss  Emily's  cape  bon 
net;  but  she  '11  be  very  glad  to  find  it,  and  I  '11  carry  it  to  her. 
I  rather  think,"  said  she,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  ran 
off,  "I  rather  think  Miss  Emily  would  be  willing  you  should 
wear  her  bonnet  home,  if  you  '11  be  careful  and  not  bend  it! " 

A  few  moments  of  embarrassment  and  anger  to  Belle,  laugh 
ter  from  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce,  and  concealed  amusement  on 
Lieutenant  Osborne's  part,  and  Gertrude  came  hastily  from  the 
woods,  with  the  hat  in  her  hand,  Fanny  following  her,  and 
taking  advantage  of  Belle's  position,  with  her  back  towards 
her,  to  resume  her  pantomimic  threats  and  insinuations.  "  Miss 
Clinton,"  said  Gertrude,  as  she  placed  the  hat  in  her  lap,  "I 
am  afraid  Fanny  has  been  very  rude  in  my  name.  I  did  not 
send  her  for  either  hat  or  bonnet,  and  shall  be  pleased  to  have 
you  wear  this  as  often  as  you  like." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  said  Belle  scornfully;  "I'd  no  idea  it 
belonged  to  you." 

"Certainly  not;  I  am  aware  of  it,"  said  Gertrude.  "But 
I  trust  that  will  not  prevent  your  making  use  of  it  for  to-day, 
at  least."  Without  urging  the  matter  further,  she  proposed 
that  they  should  hasten  on  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  which  they 
could  not  otherwise  reach  before  sundown ;  and  set  the  example 
by  moving  forward  in  that  direction,  Fanny  accompanying  her, 
and  busying  herself  as  she  went  with  stripping  the  decorations 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  257 

from  Emily's  despised  bonnet;  Belle  tying  an  embroidered 
handkerchief  under  her  chin,  and  Mr.  Bruce  swinging  on  his 
arm  the  otherwise  neglected  hat. 

Belle  did  not  recover  her  temper  for  the  evening;  the  rest 
found  their  excursion  agreeable,  and  it  was  nearly  dark  when 
they  reached  the  Thornton  farm  on  their  return.  Here  Ger 
trude  left  them,  telling  Fanny  that  she  had  promised  to  stop 
and  see  Jemmy  Thornton,  one  of  her  Sunday-school  class,  who 
was  sick  with  a  fever,  and  refusing  to  let  her  remain,  as  her 
mother  might  not  wish  her  to  enter  the  house  where  several  of 
the  family  were  sick. 

About  an  hour  after,  as  Gertrude  was  walking  home  in 
some  haste,  she  was  joined  near  Mr.  Graham's  house  by  Mr. 
Bruce,  who,  with  her  hat  still  hanging  on  his  arm,  seemed  to 
have  been  awaiting  her  return.  She  started  on  his  abruptly 
joining  her,  for  it  was  so  dark  that  she  did  not  at  once  recognize 
him,  and  supposed  it  might  be  a  stranger. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  he,  "I  hope  I  don't  alarm  you." 

"0,  no,"  said  she,  reassured  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  "I 
did  not  know  who  it  was." 

He  offered  his  arm,  and  she  took  it ;  for  his  recent  devotion 
to  Kitty  had  served  in  some  degree  to  relieve  her  of  any  fear 
she  had  felt  lest  his  attentions  carried  meaning  with  them ;  and 
concluding  that  he  liked  to  play  beau-general,  she  had  no  ob 
jection  to  his  escorting  her  home. 

"We  had  a  very  pleasant  walk  this  evening,"  said  he;  "at 
least,  /had.  Miss  Kitty  is  a  very  entertaining  companion." 

"I  think  she  is,"  replied  Gertrude;  "I  like  her  frank,  lively 
manners  much." 

"I  am  afraid  you  found  Fanny  rather  poor  company.  I 
should  have  joined  you  occasionally,  but  I  could  hardly  find 
an  opportunity  to  quit  Miss  Kitty,  we  were  so  much  interested 
in  what  we  were  saying." 

"  Fanny  and  I  are  accustomed  to  each  other,  and  very  happy 
together,"  said  Gertrude. 

"Do  you  know  we  have  planned  a  delightful  drive  for  to 
morrow  1 " 

"No,  I  was  not  aware  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Kay  expects  I  shall  ask  her  to  go  with  me ; 
but  supposing,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  should  give  you  the  prefer 
ence,  and  ask  you,  what  should  you  say  1 " 


258  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"That  I  was  much  obliged  to  you,  but  had  an  engagement 
to  take  a  drive  with  Miss  Emily,"  replied  Gertrude  promptly. 

"Indeed!"  said  he  in  a  surprised  and  provoked  tone.  "I 
thought  you  would  like  it;  but  Miss  Kitty,  I  doubt  not,  will 
accept.  I  will  go  in  and  ask  her  "  (for  they  had  now  reached 
the  house).  "Here  is  your  hat." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,  and  would  have  taken  it;  but 
Ben  still  held  it  by  one  string,  and  said,  — 

"Then  you  won't  go,  Miss  Gertrude?" 

"My  engagement  with  Miss  Emily  cannot  be  postponed  on 
any  account,"  answered  Gertrude,  thankful  that  she  had  so 
excellent  a  reason  for  declining. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Bruce;  "you  could  go  with  me  if 
you  chose;  and  if  you  don't,  I  shall  certainly  invite  Miss 
Kitty." 

The  weight  he  seemed  to  attach  to  this  threat  astonished 
Gertrude,  "Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  she,  "that  he  ex 
pects  thus  to  pique  and  annoy  me  1 "  and  she  replied  to  it  by 
saying,  "I  shall  be  happy  if  my  declining  prove  the  means  of 
Kitty's  enjoying  a  pleasant  drive;  she  is  fond  of  variety,  and 
has  few  opportunities  here  to  indulge  her  taste." 

They  now  entered  the  parlor.  Mr.  Bruce  sought  Kitty  in 
the  recess  of  the  window,  and  Gertrude,  not  finding  Emily 
present,  stayed  but  a  short  time  in  the  room ;  long  enough,  how 
ever,  to  observe  Mr.  Bruce's  exaggerated  devotion  to  Kitty, 
which  was  marked  by  others  besides  herself.  Kitty  promised 
to  accompany  him  the  next  day,  and  did  so.  Mrs.  Graham, 
Mrs.  Bruce,  Belle,  and  the  lieutenant  went  also  in  another 
vehicle;  and  Emily  and  Gertrude,  according  to  their  original 
intention,  took  a  different  direction,  and  driving  white  Charlie 
in  the  old-fashioned  buggy,  rejoiced  in  their  quiet  independ 
ence. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  259 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

Sporting  at  will,  and  moulding  sport  to  art, 
With  that  sad  holiness  —  the  human  heart. 

NEW  TIMON. 

AND  now  days  and  even  weeks  passed  on,  and  no  marked 
event  took  place  in  Mr.  Graham's  household.  The  weather 
became  intensely  warm,  and  no  more  walks  and  drives  were 
planned.  The  lieutenant  left  the  neighboring  city,  which  was 
at  this  season  nearly  deserted  by  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Graham 
and  her  nieces;  and  Isabel,  who  could  neither  endure  with 
patience  excessive  heat  or  want  of  society,  grew  more  irritable 
and  fretful  than  ever. 

To  Kitty,  however,  these  summer  days  were  fraught  with 
interest.  Mr.  Bruce  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  visited 
constantly  at  the  house,  and  exercised  a  marked  influence  upon 
her  outward  demeanor  and  her  inward  happiness,  which  were 
changeable  and  fluctuating  as  his  attentions  were  freely  bestowed 
or  altogether  suspended.  No  wonder  the  poor  girl  was  puzzled 
to  understand  one  whose  conduct  was  certainly  inexplicable  to 
any  but  those  initiated  into  his  motives.  Believing,  as  he  did, 
that  Gertrude  would  in  time  show  a  disposition  to  win  him 
back,  he  was  anxious  only  to  carry  his  addresses  to  Kitty  to 
such  a  point  as  would  excite  a  serious  alarm  in  the  mind  of 
the  poor  protegee  of  the  Grahams,  who  dared  to  slight  his 
proffered  advances.  Acting  then  as  he  did  almost  wholly  with 
reference  to  Gertrude,  it  was  only  in  her  presence,  or  under 
such  circumstances  that  he  was  sure  it  would  reach  her  ears, 
that  he  manifested  a  marked  interest  in  Kitty;  and  his  behav 
ior  was  therefore  in  the  highest  degree  unequal,  leading  the 
warm-hearted  Kitty  to  believe  one  moment  that  he  felt  for  her 
almost  the  tenderness  of  a  lover,  and  the  next  to  suffer  under 
the  apprehension  of  having  unconsciously  wounded  or  offended 
him  by  her  careless  gayety  or  conversation.  Unfortunately, 
too,  Mrs.  Graham  took  every  opportunity  to  tease  and  congratu- 


260  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

late  her  upon  her  conquest,  thereby  increasing  the  simple  girl'8 
confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  Mr.  Bruce's  admiration. 

Nor  were  Mr.  Bruce  and  Kitty  the  only  persons  who  found 
occasion  for  vexation  and  anxiety  in  this  matter.  Gertrude, 
whose  eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  existing  state  of  things, 
was  filled  with  regret  and  apprehension  on  account  of  Kitty, 
for  whose  peace  and  welfare  she  felt  a  tender  and  affectionate 
concern.  The  suspicions  to  which  Mr.  Bruce's  conduct  gave 
rise,  during  the  scenes  which  have  been  detailed,  were  soon 
strengthened  into  convictions;  for  on  several  occasions,  after 
he  had  been  offering  Kitty  ostentatious  proofs  of  devotion,  he 
thought  proper  to  test  their  effect  upon  Gertrude  by  the  tender 
of  some  attention  to  herself;  more  than  intimating,  at  the  same 
time,  that  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  rob  Kitty  of  all  claim 
upon  his  favor. 

Gertrude  availed  herself  of  every  opportunity  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  truth,  that  he  could  not  possibly  render  himself 
more  odious  in  her  eyes  than  by  the  use  of  such  mean  attempts 
to  mortify  her ;  but  attributing  her  warmth  to  the  very  feeling 
of  jealousy  which  he  desired  to  excite,  the  selfish  young  man 
persevered  in  his  course  of  folly  and  wickedness.  As  he  only 
proffered  his  attentions,  and  made  no  offer  of  his  heart  and 
hand,  Gertrude  did  not  in  the  least  trust  his  professions  towards 
herself ]  considering  them  merely  as  intended,  if  possible,  to 
move  her  from  her  firm  and  consistent  course  of  behavior,  in 
order  to  gratify  his  self-love.  But  she  saw  plainly  that,  how 
ever  light  and  vain  his  motives  might  be  in  her  own  case,  they 
were  still  more  so  with  reference  to  Kitty ;  and  she  was  deeply 
grieved  at  the  evident  unconsciousness  of  this  fact  which  the 
simple  girl  constantly  exhibited. 

For  strangely  enough,  Kitty,  having  quite  forgotten  that  she 
had  a  few  weeks  back  looked  upon  Gertrude  as  a  rival,  now 
chose  her  for  her  bosom  friend  and  confidant.  Her  aunt  was 
too  coarse  and  rough,  Belle  too  selfish  and  vain,  to  be  intrusted 
with  little  matters  of  the  heart;  and  though  Kitty  had  no  idea 
of  confessing  her  partiality  for  Mr.  Bruce,  the  transparency  of 
her  character  was  such  that  she  betrayed  her  secret  to  Ger 
trude  without  being  in  the  least  aware  that  she  had  done  so. 
Though  no  one  but  Gertrude  appeared  to  observe  it,  Kitty  was 
wonderfully  changed.  The  gay,  laughing,  careless  Kitty  had 
now  her  fits  of  musing,  her  sunny  face  was  subject  to  cloudy 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  261 

that  flitted  across  it  and  robbed  it  of  all  its  brightness.  Now 
her  spirits  were  unnaturally  free  and  lively;  and  now  she  wore 
a  pensive  expression,  and  stealthily  lifting  her  eyes,  fixed  them 
anxiously  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Bruce,  as  if  studying  his  temper 
or  his  sentiments.  If  she  saw  Gertrude  walking  in  the  garden 
or  sitting  alone  in  her  room,  she  would  approach,  throw  her 
arm  around  her,  lean  against  her  shoulder,  and  talk  on  her 
favorite  topic.  She  would  relate,  with  a  mixture  of  simplicity 
and  folly,  the  complimentary  speeches  and  polite  attentions  of 
Mr.  Bruce ;  talk  about  him  for  an  hour,  and  question  Gertrude 
as  to  her  opinion  of  his  merits  and  the  sincerity  of  his  avowed 
admiration  for  herself.  She  would  intimate  her  perception  of 
some  fault  possessed  by  him,  who  was  in  her  eyes  almost  per 
fection;  and  when  Gertrude  coincided  with  her,  and  expressed 
regret  at  the  evident  failing,  she  would  exhaust  a  great  amount 
of  strength  and  ingenuity  in  her  efforts  to  prove  that  they  were 
both  mistaken  in  attributing  it  to  him,  and  that,  if  he  had  a 
fault,  it  was  in  reality  quite  the  reverse.  She  would  ask  if  Ger 
trude  really  supposed  he  meant  all  he  said,  and  add  that  of 
course  she  didn't  believe  he  did,  — it  was  all  nonsense.  And 
if  Gertrude  embraced  the  opportunity  to  avow  the  same  opinion, 
and  declare  that  it  was  not  best  to  trust  all  his  high-flown  flat 
teries,  poor  Kitty's  face  would  fall,  and  she  would  proceed  to 
give  her  reasons  for  sometimes  thinking  he  was  sincere,  he  had 
such  a  truthful,  earnest  way  of  speaking. 

It  was  no  use  to  throw  out  hints,  or  try  to  establish  safe 
guards.  Kitty  was  completely  infatuated.  At  last  Mr.  Bruce 
thought  proper  to  try  Gertrude's  firmness  by  offering  to  her 
acceptance  a  rich  ring.  Not  a  little  surprised  at  his  presump 
tion,  she  declined  it  without  hesitation  or  ceremony,  and  the 
next  day  saw  it  on  the  finger  of  Kitty,  who  was  eager  to  give 
an  account  of  its  presentation. 

"  And  did  you  accept  it  ? "  asked  Gertrude,  with  such  a  look 
of  astonishment  that  Kitty  observed  it,  and  evaded  an  acknow 
ledgment  of  having  done  so,  by  saying,  with  a  blushing  counte 
nance,  that  she  agreed  to  wear  it  a  little  while. 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Gertrude. 

" Why  not?" 

"Because,  in  the  first  place,  I  do  not  think  it  is  in  good 
taste  to  receive  rich  gifts  from  gentlemen ;  and  then  again,  if 
strangers  notice  it,  you  may  be  subjected  to  uupleasant,  signifi 
cant  remarks." 


262  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"What  would  you  do  with  it? "  asked  Kitty. 

" I  should  give  it  back." 

Kitty  looked  very  undecided,  but  on  reflection  concluded  to 
offer  it  to  Mr.  Bruce,  and  tell  him  what  Gertrude  said.  She 
did  so,  and  that  gentleman,  little  appreciating  Gertrude's  mo 
tives,  and  believing  her  only  desirous  of  making  difficulty 
between  him  and  Kitty,  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  her 
heart  was  won  at  last,  and  that  his  triumph  would  now  be  com 
plete.  He  was  disappointed,  therefore,  when,  on  his  next  meet 
ing  with  her,  she  treated  him,  as  she  had  invariably  done  of 
late,  with  cool  civility;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 
more  insensible  than  ever  to  his  attractions;  and  hastily  quit 
ting  the  house,  much  to  the  distress  of  Kitty  (who  spent  the 
rest  of  the  day  in  thinking  over  everything  she  had  done  and 
said  which  could  by  any  possibility  have  given  offence),  he 
sought  his  old  haunt  under  the  pear-tree  and  gave  himself  up 
to  the  consideration  of  a  weighty  question. 

Seldom  did  Ben  Bruce  feel  called  upon  to  take  serious  views 
of  any  subject;  seldom  was  he  accustomed  to  rally  and  marshal 
the  powers  of  his  mind,  and  deliberately  weigh  the  two  sides 
of  an  argument.  Living  as  he  did,  with  no  higher  aim  than 
the  promoting  of  his  own  selfish  gratification,  he  had  been  wont 
to  avail  himself  of  every  opportunity  for  amusement  and  indul 
gence,  and  even  to  bring  mean  and  petty  artifice  to  the  further 
ance  of  his  plans.  Possessed,  as  he  was,  notwithstanding  his 
narrow  mind,  with  what  is  often  called  "a  good  look-out,"  he 
was  rarely  cheated  or  defrauded  of  his  rights.  He  knew  the 
value  of  his  money  and  position  in  life,  and  never  suffered 
himself  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  designs  of  those  who  hoped  to 
reap  a  benefit  from  his  companionship.  Self-sacrifice,  too, 
was  a  thing  of  which  he  had  no  experience,  and  with  which, 
as  seen  in  others,  he  felt  no  sympathy.  Now,  however,  a  crisis 
had  arrived  when  his  own  interests  and  wishes  clashed;  when 
necessity  demanded  that  one  should  be  immolated  at  the  shrine 
of  the  other,  and  a  choice  must  be  made  between  the  two.  It 
was  certainly  a  matter  which  claimed  deep  deliberation;  and  if 
Ben  Bruce,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  devoted  a  whole  after 
noon  to  careful  thought  and  an  accurate  measurement  of  oppos 
ing  forces,  the  occurrence  must  be  attributed  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  making  up  his  mind  on  the  most  important  question  that 
ever  yet  had  agitated  it. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  263 

"Shall  I,"  thought  he,  "conclude  to  marry  this  poor  girl? 
Shall  I,  who  am  master  of  a  handsome  fortune,  and  have  addi 
tional  expectations,  forego  the  prospect  they  afford  me  of  mak 
ing  a  brilliant  alliance,  and  condescend  to  share  my  wealth  and 
station  in  society  with  this  adopted  child  of  the  Grahams,  who, 
in  spite  of  her  poverty,  will  not  grant  me  a  smile  even,  except 
at  the  price  of  all  my  possessions?  If  she  were  one  atom  less 
charming,  I  would  disappoint  her  after  all!  I  wonder  how 
she  'd  feel  if  I  should  marry  Kitty !  I  dare  say  I  never  should 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing;  for  she's  so  proud  that  she 
would  come  to  my  wedding,  for  aught  I  know,  bend  her  slen 
der  neck  as  gracefully  as  ever,  and  say,  *  Good-evening,  Mr. 
Bruce,'  as  politely  and  calmly  as  she  does  now,  every  time  I 
go  to  the  house !  It  provokes  me  to  see  how  a  poor  girl  like 
that  carries  herself.  But  as  Mrs.  Bruce,  I  should  be  proud 
of  that  manner,  certainly.  I  wonder  how  I  ever  got  in  love 
with  her;  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  She  isn't  handsome;  at 
least,  mother  thinks  she  is  n't,  and  so  does  Belle  Clinton.  But 
then,  again,  Lieutenant  Osborne  noticed  her  the  minute  she  came 
into  the  room;  and  there  's  Fan  raves  about  her  beauty.  I  don't 
know  what  I  think  myself;  I  believe  she's  bewitched  me,  so 
that  I  'm  not  capable  of  judging;  but  if  it  isn't  beauty,  it  is 
because  it 's  something  more  than  mere  good  looks." 

Thus  he  soliloquized;  and  as  every  time  he  revolved  the 
subject  he  commenced  by  dwelling  upon  the  immense  sacrifice^ 
he  was  making,  and  ended  with  reflections  upon  Gertrude's 
charms,  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  he  ultimately  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  should  suffer  less  by  laying  his  fortune 
at  her  feet  than  by  the  endeavor  to  enjoy  that  fortune  without 
her.  For  a  few  days  after  he  arrived  at  a  resolve  on  this  point,  J 
he  had  no  opportunity  to  address  a  word  to  Gertrude,  who  was 
now  doubly  anxious  to  avoid  him,  and  spent  nearly  the  whole 
day  above  stairs,  except  when,  at  Emily's  request,  she  accom 
panied  her  for  a  short  time  into  the  parlor;  and  even  then  she 
took  pains,  under  some  pretext  or  other,  to  remain  close  by 
the  side  of  her  blind  friend. 

About  this  time,  Mrs.  Graham  and  Mrs.  Bruce,  with  their 
families,  received  cards  for  a  levee  to  be  held  at  the  house  of 
an  acquaintance  nearly  five  miles  distant.  It  was  on  the  occa 
sion  of  the  marriage  »f  a  schoolmate  of  Isabel's,  and  both  she 
and  Kitty  were  desirous  to  be  present.  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  had 


264  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

a  close  carriage,  invited  both  the  cousins  to  accompany  her; 
and  as  Mr.  Graham's  carryall,  when  closed,  would  only  accom 
modate  himself  and  lady,  the  proposal  was  gladly  acceded  to. 

The  prospect  of  a  gay  assembly  and  an  opportunity  for  dis 
play  revived  Isabel's  drooping  spirits  and  energy.  Her  rich 
evening  dresses  were  brought  out  for  the  selection  of  the  most 
suitable  and  becoming;  and  as  she  stood  before  her  mirror,  and 
tried  on  first  one  wreath  and  then  another,  and  looked  so  beau 
tiful  in  each  that  it  was  difficult  to  make  a  choice,  Kitty,  who 
stood  by,  eagerly  endeavoring  to  win  her  attention,  and  obtain 
her  advice  concerning  the  style  and  color  most  desirable  for 
herself,  gave  up  in  despair,  and  ran  off  to  consult  Gertrude. 

She  found  her  reading  in  her  own  room;  but  on  Kitty's 
abrupt  entrance  she  laid  down  her  book,  and  gave  her  undi 
vided  attention  to  the  subject  which  was  under  discussion. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Kitty,  "what  shall  I  wear  this  evening? 
I  ?ve  been  trying  to  get  Belle  to  tell  me,  but  she  never  will 
speak  a  word,  or  hear  what  I  ask  her,  when  she  's  thinking 
about  her  own  dress!  I  declare,  she  's  dreadfully  selfish!" 

"Who  advises  her?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"0,  nobody;  she  always  decides  for  herself;  but  then  she 
has  so  much  taste,  and  I  haven't  the  least  in  the  world!  So, 
do  tell  me,  Gertrude,  what  had  I  better  wear  to-night  ? 

"I'm  the  last  person  you  should  ask,  Kitty;  I  never  went 
to  a  fashionable  party  in  my  life." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference.  I  'm  sure,  if  you  did 
go,  you  'd  look  better  than  any  of  us;  and  I  'm  not  afraid  to 
trust  to  your  opinion,  for  I  never  in  my  life  saw  you  wear  any 
thing  that  didn't  look  genteel;  even  your  gingham  morning 
gown  has  a  sort  of  stylish  air." 

"Stop,  stop,  Kitty!  you  are  going  too  far;  you  must  keep 
within  bounds,  if  you  want  me  to  believe  you." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Kitty,  "to  say  nothing  of  yourself  (for 
I  know  you  're  superior  to  flattery,  Gertrude,  — somebody  told 
me  so),  who  furnishes  Miss  Emily's  wardrobe?  Who  selects 
her  dresses  ? " 

"I  have  done  so,  lately,  but  —  " 

*'  I  thought  so !  I  thought  so !  "  interrupted  Kitty.  "  I  knew 
poor  Miss  Emily  was  indebted  to  you  for  always  looking  so 
nice  and  so  beautiful." 

"No,  indeed,  Kitty,  you  are  mistaken;  I  have  never  seen 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  265 

Emily  better  dressed  than  she  was  the  first  time  I  met  her; 
and  her  beauty  is  not  borrowed  from  art  —  it  is  all  her  own. " 

"  0,  I  know  she  is  lovely,  and  everybody  admires  her ;  but 
no  one  can  suppose  she  would  take  pains  to  wear  such  pretty 
things,  and  put  them  on  so  gracefully,  just  to  please  her 
self." 

"It  is  not  done  merely  to  please  herself;  it  was  to  please 
her  father  that  Emily  first  made  the  exertion  to  dress  with 
taste  as  well  as  neatness.  I  have  heard  that,  for  some  time 
after  she  lost  her  eyesight,  she  was  disposed  to  be  very  careless ; 
but  having  accidentally  discovered  that  it  was  an  additional 
cause  of  sorrow  to  him,  she  roused  herself  at  once,  and  with 
Mrs.  Ellis 's  assistance  contrived  always  afterwards  to  please  him 
in  that  particular.  But  you  observe,  Kitty,  she  never  wears 
anything  showy  or  conspicuous." 

"No,  indeed  —  that  is  what  I  like;  but,  Gertrude,  hasn't 
she  always  been  blind  ?  " 

"No;  until  she  was  sixteen  she  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  could 
see  as  well  as  you  can." 

"  What  happened  to  her  ?     How  did  she  lose  them  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Didn't  you  ever  ask?" 

"No." 

"  Why  not  ?  —  how  queer !  " 

"I  heard  that  she  didn't  like  to  speak  of  it." 

"But  she  would  have  told  you;  she  half  worships  you." 

"If  she  had  wished  me  to  know,  she  would  have  told  with 
out  my  asking." 

Kitty  stared  at  Gertrude,  wondering  much  at  such  unusual 
delicacy  and  consideration,  and  instinctively  admiring  a  forbear 
ance  of  which  she  was  conscious  she  should  herself  have  been 
incapable. 

"But  your  dress!  "  said  Gertrude,  smiling  at  Kitty's  abstrac 
tion. 

"0,  yes!  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  came  here  for," 
said  Kitty.  "  What  shall  it  be,  then,  —  thick  or  thin,  pink, 
blue,  or  white  ?  " 

"  What  has  Isabel  decided  upon  ?  " 

"  Blue  —  a  rich  blue  silk ;  that  is  her  favorite  color  always, 
but  it  doesn't  become  me." 

"No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  Gertrude;  "but  come,  Kitty  9 


266  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

we  will  go  to  your  room  and  see  the  dresses,  and  I  will  give 
my  opinion." 

Kitty's  wardrobe  having  been  inspected,  and  Gertrude  hav 
ing  expressed  her  preference  for  a  thin  and  flowing  material, 
especially  in  the  summer  season,  a  delicate  white  crape  was 
fixed  upon.  And  now  there  was  a  new  difficulty.  Among  all 
her  headdresses,  none  proved  satisfactory ;  all  were  more  or  less 
defaced,  and  none  of  them  to  be  compared  with  a  new  and  exqui 
site  wreath  which  Isabel  was  arranging  among  her  curls. 

"I  cannot  wear  any  of  them,"  said  Kitty,  "they  look  so 
mean  by  the  side  of  Isabel's;  but,  0! "  exclaimed  she,  glancing 
at  a  box  which  lay  on  the  dressing-table,  "these  are  just  what 
I  should  like !  0  Isabel,  where  did  you  get  these  beautiful 
carnations  ?  "  and  she  took  up  some  flowers,  which  were,  indeed, 
a  rare  imitation  of  nature,  and  displaying  them  to  Gertrude, 
added  that  they  were  just  what  she  wanted. 

"0  Kitty,"  said  Isabel  angrily,  turning  away  from  the  glass, 
and  observing  what  her  cousin  had  in  her  hand,  "don't  touch 
my  flowers !  you  will  spoil  them ! "  and  snatching  them  from 
her  she  replaced  them  in  the  box,  opened  a  drawer  in  her 
bureau,  and  having  deposited  them  there,  took  the  precaution 
to  lock  them  up  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket,  an  action 
which  Gertrude  witnessed  with  astonishment,  not  unmingled 
with  indignation, 

"Kitty,"  said  she,  "I  will  arrange  a  wreath  of  natural  flow 
ers  for  you,  if  you  wish." 

"  Will  you,  Gertrude  ?  "  said  the  disappointed  and  provoked 
Kitty.  "0,  that  will  be  delightful!  I  should  like  it,  of  all 
things.  And  Isabel,  you  cross  old  miser,  you  can  keep  all 
your  wreaths  to  yourself!  It  is  a  pity  you  can't  wear  two  at 
a  time ! " 

True  to  her  promise,  Gertrude  prepared  a  headdress  foi 
Kitty ;  and  so  tastefully  did  she  mingle  the  choicest  productions 
of  the  garden,  that  when  Isabel  saw  her  cousin  arrayed  under 
a  more  careful  and  affectionate  superintendence  than  she  often 
enjoyed,  she  felt,  notwithstanding  her  own  proud  consciousness 
of  superior  beauty,  a  sharp  pang  of  jealousy  of  Kitty  and  dis 
like  to  Gertrude. 

It  had  been  no  small  source  of  annoyance  to  Isabel,  who 
could  not  endure  to  be  outshone,  that  Kitty  had  of  late  been 
the  object  of  marked  attention  to  Mr.  Bruce,  while  she  herself 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  267 

had  been  entirely  overlooked.  Not  that  she  felt  any  partiality 
for  the  gentleman  whom  Kitty  was  so  anxious  to  please;  but 
the  dignity  conferred  on  her  cousin  by  his  admiration,  the  in 
terest  the  atfair  awakened  in  her  aunt,  and  the  meaning  looks 
of  Mrs.  Bruce,  all  made  her  feel  herself  of  second-rate  impor 
tance,  and  rendered  her  more  eager  than  ever  to  supplant,  in 
general  society,  the  comparatively  unpretending  Kitty.  There 
fore  when  Mrs.  Graham  complimented  the  latter  on  her  un 
usually  attractive  appearance,  and  declared  that  somebody  would 
this  night  be  more  charmed  than  ever,  Isabel  curled  her  lip 
with  mingled  disdain  and  defiance,  while  the  blushing  Kitty 
turned  to  Gertrude  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Mr.  Bruce  likes 
white ;  he  said  so  the  other  day,  when  you  passed  through  the 
room  dressed  in  your  mulled  muslin." 


268  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

Know,  then,  that  I  have  supported  my  pretensions  to  your  hand  in  the  way 
that  best  suited  my  character.  JVANHOE. 

EMILY  was  not  well  this  evening.  It  was  often  the  case 
lately,  that  headache,  unwonted  weariness,  or  a  nervous  shrink 
ing  from  noise  and  excitement  sent  her  to  her  own  room,  and 
sometimes  led  her  to  seek  her  couch  at  an  early  hour.  After 
Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces  had  gone  downstairs  to  await  Mr. 
Graham's  pleasure  and  Mrs.  Bruce 's  arrival,  Gertrude  returned 
to  Emily,  whom  she  had  left  only  a  short  time  before,  and 
found  her  suffering  more  than  usual  from  what  she  termed  her 
troublesome  head.  She  was  easily  induced  to  seek  the  only 
infallible  cure,  —  sleep ;  and  Gertrude,  seating  herself  on  the 
bedside,  as  she  was  frequently  in  the  habit  of  doing,  bathed 
her  temples  until  she  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber.  The  noise  of 
Mrs.  Bruce 's  carriage,  coming  and  going,  seemed  to  disturb 
her  a  little;  but  in  a  few  moments  more  she  was  so  sound 
asleep  that,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  departed,  the  loud 
voice  of  the  latter,  giving  her  orders  to  one  of  the  servants, 
did  not  startle  her  in  the  least.  Gertrude  sat  some  time  longer 
without  changing  her  position;  then  quietly  rising  and  arrang 
ing  everything  for  the  night,  according  to  Emily's  well-known 
wishes,  she  closed  the  door  gently  behind  her,  sought  a  book 
in  her  own  room,  and  entering  the  cool  and  vacant  parlor, 
seated  herself  at  a  table,  to  enjoy  the  now  rare  opportunity  for 
perfect  stillness  and  repose. 

Either  her  own  thoughts,  however,  proved  more  interesting 
than  the  volume  she  held,  or  it  may  be  the  insects,  attracted 
by  the  bright  lamp,  annoyed  her,  or  the  beauty  of  the  evening 
won  her  observation ;  for  she  soon  forsook  her  seat  at  the  table, 
and  going  towards  the  open  glass  doors,  placed  herself  near 
them,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand,  became  absorbed  in 
meditation. 

She  had  not  long  sat  thus  when  she  heard  a  footstep  in  the 
room,  and  turning,  saw  Mr.  Bruce  beside  her.  She  started, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  269 

and  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Bruce!  is  it  possible?  I  thought  you 
had  gone  to  the  wedding." 

"No,  there  were  greater  attractions  for  me  at  home.  Could 
you  believe,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  should  find  any  pleasure  in  a 
party  which  did  not  include  yourself  ?  " 

"I  certainly  should  not  have  the  vanity  to  suppose  the 
reverse,"  replied  Gertrude. 

"I  wish  you  had  a  little  more  vanity,  Miss  Gertrude.  Per 
haps  then  you  would  sometimes  believe  what  I  say." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  the  candor  to  acknowledge,  Mr.  Bruce, 
that,  without  that  requisite,  one  would  find  it  impossible  to 
put  faith  in  your  fair  speeches." 

"I  acknowledge  no  such  thing.  I  only  say  to  you  what  any 
other  girl  but  yourself  would  be  willing  enough  to  believe;  but 
how  shall  I  convince  you  that  I  am  serious,  and  wish  to  be  so 
understood  ?  How  shall  I  persuade  you  to  converse  freely  with 
me,  and  no  longer  shun  my  society  ?  " 

"By  addressing  me  with  simple  truthfulness,  and  sparing  me 
those  words  and  attentions  which  I  have  endeavored  to  convince 
you  are  unacceptable  to  me  and  unworthy  of  yourself." 

"But  I  have  a  meaning,  Gertrude,  a  deep  meaning.  I  have 
been  trying  for  several  days  to  find  an  opportunity  to  tell  you 
of  rny  resolve,  and  you  must  listen  to  me  now ; "  for  he  saw 
her  change  color  and  look  anxious  and  uneasy.  "You  must 
give  me  an  answer  at  once,  and  one  that  will,  I  trust,  be 
favorable  to  my  wishes.  You  like  plain  speaking;  and  I  will 
be  plain  enough,  now  that  my  mind  is  made  up.  My  relatives 
and  friends  may  talk  and  wonder  as  much  as  they  please  at  my 
choosing  a  wife  who  has  neither  money  nor  family  to  boast  of; 
but  I  have  determined  to  defy  them  all,  and  offer,  without  hes 
itation,  to  share  my  prospects  with  you.  After  all,  what  is 
money  good  for,  if  it  does  n't  make  a  man  independent  to  do 
as  he  pleases?  And  as  to  the  world,  I  don't  see  but  you  can 
hold  your  head  as  high  as  anybody,  Gertrude;  so  if  you  've  no 
objection  to  make,  we  '11  play  at  cross  purposes  no  longer,  and 
consider  the  thing  settled ; "  and  he  endeavored  to  take  her 
hand. 

But  Gertrude  drew  back ;  the  color  flushed  her  cheeks  and 
her  eyes  glistened  as  she  fixed  them  upon  his  face  with  an  ex 
pression  of  astonishment  and  pride  that  could  not  be  mistaken. 

The  calm,  penetrating  look  of  those  dark  eyes  spoke  volumes, 


270  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

and  Mr.  Bruce  replied  to  their  inquiring  gaze  in  these  words. 
"I  hope  you  are  not  displeased  at  my  frankness." 

"With  your  frankness,"  said  Gertrude  calmly;  "no,  that  is 
a  thing  that  never  displeases  me.  But  what  have  I  uncon 
sciously  done  to  inspire  you  with  so  much  confidence  that, 
while  you  defend  yourself  for  defying  the  wishes  of  your 
friends,  you  hardly  give  me  a  voice  in  the  matter  1 " 

"Nothing,"  said  Bruce  in  an  apologizing  tone;  "but  I 
thought  you  had  labored  under  the  impression  that  I  was  dis 
posed  to  trifle  with  your  affections,  and  had  therefore  kept 
aloof  and  maintained  a  distance  towards  me  which  you  would 
not  have  done  had  you  known  how  much  I  was  in  earnest; 
but,  believe  me,  I  only  admired  you  the  more  for  behaving  with 
so  much  dignity,  and  if  I  have  presumed  upon  your  favor,  you 
must  forgive  me.  I  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  receive  a  favor 
able  answer  from  you." 

The  expression  of  wounded  pride  vanished  from  Gertrude's 
face.  "He  knows  no  better,"  thought  she;  "I  should  pity 
his  vanity  and  ignorance,  and  sympathize  in  his  disappoint 
ment  ; "  and  in  disclaiming,  with  a  positiveness  which  left  no 
room  for  further  self-deception,  any  interest  in  Mr.  Bruce  be 
yond  that  of  an  old  acquaintance  and  sincere  well-wisher,  she 
nevertheless  softened  her  refusal  by  the  choice  of  the  mildest 
language,  and  terms  the  least  likely  to  grieve  or  mortify  him. 
She  felt,  as  every  true  woman  must  under  similar  circumstances, 
that  her  gratitude  and  consideration  were  due  to  the  man  who, 
however  little  she  might  esteem  him,  had  paid  her  the  highest 
honor ;  and  though  her  regret  in  the  matter  was  somewhat  tem 
pered  by  the  thought  of  Kitty,  and  the  strangeness  of  Mr. 
Bruce 's  conduct  towards  her,  now  rendered  doubly  inexplicable, 
she  did  not  permit  that  reflection,  even,  to  prevent  her  from 
maintaining  the  demeanor,  not  only  of  a  perfect  lady,  but  of 
one  who,  in  giving  pain  to  another,  laments  the  necessity  of  so 
doing. 

She  almost  felt,  however,  as  if  her  thoughtfulness  for  his 
feelings  had  been  thrown  away  when  she  perceived  the  spirit 
in  which  he  received  her  refusal. 

"Gertrude,"  said  he,  "you  are  either  trifling  with  me  or 
yourself.  If  you  are  still  disposed  to  coquet  with  me,  I  desire 
to  have  it  understood  that  I  shall  not  humble  myself  to  urge 
you  further;  but  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are  so  far  forgetful 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  271 

of  your  own  interests  as  deliberately  to  refuse  such  a  fortune  as 
mine,  I  think  it 's  a  pity  you  have  n't  got  some  friend  to  advise 
you.  Such  a  chance  does  n't  occur  every  day,  especially  to  poor 
school-mistresses,  and  if  you  are  so  foolish  as  to  overlook  it, 
I  '11  venture  to  say  you  '11  never  have  another." 

Gertrude's  old  temper  rose  at  this  insulting  language,  beat 
and  throbbed  in  her  chafed  spirit,  and  even  betrayed  itself  in 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  which  trembled  as  they  rested  on  the 
table  near  which  she  stood  (having  risen  as  Mr.  Bruce  spoke) ; 
but  though  this  was  an  unlooked-for  and  unwonted  rebellion  of 
an  old  enemy,  her  feelings  had  too  long  been  under  strict  regu 
lation  to  yield  to  the  blast,  however  sudden,  and  she  replied 
in  a  tone  which,  though  slightly  agitated,  was  far  from  being 
angry:  "Allowing  I  could  so  far  forget  myself,  Mr.  Bruce,  I 
would  not  do  you  such  an  injustice  as  to  marry  you  for  your 
fortune.  I  do  not  despise  wealth,  for  I  know  the  blessing  it 
may  often  be,  but  my  affections  cannot  be  bought  with  gold ; " 
and  as  she  spoke  she  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Stay !  "  said  Mr.  Bruce,  catching  her  hand ;  "  listen  to  me 
one  moment;  let  me  ask  you  one  question.  Are  you  jealous 
of  my  late  attentions  to  another  1 " 

"No,"  answered  Gertrude;  "but  I  confess  I  have  not  under 
stood  your  motives." 

"Did  you  think,"  asked  he  eagerly,  "that  I  cared  for  that 
silly  Kitty  1  Did  you  believe,  for  a  moment,  that  I  had  any 
other  desire  than  to  show  you  that  my  devotion  was  acceptable 
elsewhere  1  No,  upon  my  word,  I  never  had  the  least  particle 
of  regard  for  her;  my  heart  has  been  yours  all  the  time,  and  I 
only  danced  attendance  upon  her  in  hopes  to  win  a  glance  from 
you,  —  an  anxious  glance,  if  might  be.  0,  how  often  I  have 
wished  that  you  would  show  one  quarter  of  the  pleasure  that 
she  did  in  my  society;  would  blush  and  smile  as  she  did; 
would  look  sad  when  I  was  dull,  and  laugh  when  I  was  merry ; 
so  that  I  might  flatter  myself,  as  I  could  in  her  case,  that  your 
heart  was  won.  But,  as  to  loving  her,  —  pooh !  Mrs.  Gra 
ham's  poodle  dog  might  as  well  try  to  rival  you  as  that  soft  —  " 

"  Stop !  stop !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  for  my  sake,  if  not 
for  your  own  !  0,  how  —  "  She  could  say  no  more,  but  sink 
ing  into  the  nearest  seat,  burst  into  tears,  and  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  as  had  been  her  habit  in  childhood,  wept  without 
restraint. 


272  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Mr.  Bruce  stood  by  in  utter  amazement;  at  last  he  ap 
proached  her,  and  asked  in  a  low  voice,  "What  is  the  matter1? 
what  have  I  done  ?  " 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  reply  to  the  question; 
then  lifting  her  head,  and  tossing  the  hair  from  her  forehead, 
she  displayed  features  expressive  only  of  the  deepest  grief,  and 
said  in  broken  accents,  "  What  have  you  done  1  0,  how  can 
you  ask?  She  is  gentle  and  amiable  and  affectionate.  She 
loves  everybody  and  trusts  everybody.  You  have  deceived  her, 
and  /  was  the  cause  of  it !  0,  how,  how  could  you  do  it !  " 

A  most  disconcerted  appearance  did  Ben  present  at  her 
words,  and  hesitating  was  the  tone  in  which  he  muttered, 
"She  will  get  over  it." 

"  Get  over  ivhat  ?  "  said  Gertrude ;  "  her  love  for  you  1  Per 
haps  so ;  I  know  not  how  deep  it  is.  But  think  of  her  happy, 
trusting  nature,  and  how  it  has  been  betrayed !  Think  how  she 
believed  your  nattering  words,  and  how  hollow  they  were,  all 
the  while !  Think  how  her  confidence  has  been  abused !  how 
that  fatherless  and  motherless  girl,  who  had  a  claim  to  the  sym 
pathy  of  all  the  world,  has  been  taught  a  lesson  of  distrust ! " 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  take  it  so,"  said  Ben. 

"How  else  could  I  view  it?"  asked  Gertrude.  "Could  you 
expect  that  such  a  course  would  win  my  respect  ? " 

"  You  take  it  very  seriously,  Gertrude.  Such  flirtations  are 
common. " 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Gertrude.  "To  my  mind, 
unversed  in  the  ways  of  society,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  trifle 
thus  with  a  human  heart.  Wrhether  Kitty  loves  you  is  not  for 
me  to  say ;  but  what  opinion  —  alas !  —  will  she  have  of  your 
sincerity  1 " 

"I  think  you're  rather  hard,  Miss  Gertrude,  when  it  was 
my  love  for  you  that  prompted  my  conduct." 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Gertrude.  "It  is  not  my  place  to 
censure;  I  speak  only  from  the  impulse  of  my  heart.  One 
orphan  girl's  warm  defence  of  another  is  but  natural.  Perhaps 
she  views  the  thing  lightly,  and  does  not  need  an  advocate; 
but,  0,  Mr.  Bruce,  do  not  think  so  meanly  of  my  sex  as  to 
believe  that  one  woman's  heart  can  be  won  to  love  and  rever 
ence  by  the  author  of  another's  betrayal!  She  were  less  than 
woman  who  could  be  so  false  to  her  sense  of  right  and  honor." 

"  Betrayal !     Nonsense !  you  are  very  high  flown. " 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  273 

"  So  much  so,  Mr.  Bruce,  that  half  an  hour  ago  I  could  have 
wept  that  you  should  have  bestowed  your  affection  where  it 
met  with  no  requital;  and  if  now  I  weep  for  the  sake  of  her 
whose  ears  have  listened  to  false  professions,  and  whose  peace 
has,  to  say  the  least,  been  threatened  on  my  account,  you 
should  attribute  it  to  the  fact  that  my  sympathies  have  not 
been  exhausted  by  contact  with  the  world." 

A  short  silence  ensued.  Ben  went  a  step  or  two  towards 
the  door,  then  stopped,  came  back,  and  said,  "After  all,  Ger 
trude  Flint,  I  believe  the  time  will  come  when  your  notions 
will  grow  less  romantic,  and  you  will  look  back  to  this  night 
and  wish  you  had  acted  differently.  You  will  find  out,  in 
time,  that  this  is  a  world  where  people  must  look  out  for  them 
selves.7' 

Immediately  upon  this  remark  he  left  the  room,  and  Ger 
trude  heard  him  shut  the  hall  door  with  a  loud  bang  as  he 
went  out. 

A  moment  after,  the  silence  that  ensued  was  disturbed  by 
a  slight  sound,  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  deep  recess 
in  the  window.  Gertrude  started,  and  as  she  went  towards 
the  spot,  heard  distinctly  a  smothered  sob.  She  lifted  a  dra- 
peried  curtain,  and  there,  upon  the  wide  window-seat,  her  head 
bent  over  and  buried  in  the  cushions,  and  her  little  slender 
form  distorted  into  a  strange  and  forlorn  attitude,  —  such  as 
might  be  seen  in  a  grieved  child,  —  sat,  or  rather  crouched, 
poor  Kitty  Eay.  The  crumpled  folds  of  her  white  crape  dress, 
her  withered  wreath,  —  which  had  half  fallen  from  her  head, 
and  hung  drooping  on  her  shoulders,  —  her  disordered  hair, 
and  her  little  hand  clinging  to  a  thick  cord  connected  with  the 
window  curtain,  all  added  to  the  appearance  of  extreme  dis 
tress. 

"Kitty!"  cried  Gertrude,  at  once  recognizing  her,  although 
her  face  was  hid. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Kitty  sprung  suddenly  from  her 
recumbent  posture,  threw  herself  into  Gertrude's  arms,  laid 
her  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  though  she  did  not,  could  not 
weep,  shook  and  trembled  with  an  agitation  which  was  perfectly 
uncontrollable.  Her  hand,  which  grasped  Gertrude's,  was 
fearfully  cold ;  her  eyes  seemed  fixed ;  and  occasionally,  at  in 
tervals,  the  same  hysterical  sound  which  had  at  first  betrayed 
her  in  her  hiding-place  alarmed  her  young  protector,  to  whom 


274  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

she  clung  as  if  seized  with  sudden  fear.  Gertrude  supported 
her  to  a  seat,  and  then,  folding  the  slight  form  to  her  bosom, 
chafed  the  cold  hands,  and  again  and  again  kissing  the  rigid 
lips,  succeeded  at  last  in  restoring  her  to  something  like  com 
posure.  For  an  hour  she  lay  thus,  receiving  Gertrude's  caresses 
with  evident  pleasure,  and  now  and  then  returning  them  con 
vulsively,  but  speaking  no  word,  and  making  no  noise.  Ger 
trude,  with  the  truest  judgment  and  delicacy,  refrained  from 
asking  questions,  or  recurring  to  a  conversation  the  whole  of 
which  had  been  thus  overheard  and  comprehended;  but  pa 
tiently  waiting  until  Kitty  grew  more  quiet  and  calm,  prepared 
for  her  a  soothing  draught;  and  then,  finding  her  completely 
prostrated,  both  in  mind  and  body,  passed  her  arm  around  her 
waist,  guided  her  upstairs,  and  without  the  ceremony  of  an 
invitation,  took  her  into  her  own  room,  where,  if  she  proved 
wakeful,  she  would  be  spared  the  wonder  and  scrutiny  of  Isa 
bel.  Still  clinging  to  Gertrude,  the  poor  girl,  to  whose  relief 
tears  came  at  last,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep ;  and  all  her  suffer 
ings  were  for  a  time  forgotten  in  that  oblivion  in  which  child 
hood  and  youth  find  a  temporary  rest,  and  often  a  healing  balm 
to  pain. 

It  was  otherwise,  however,  with  Gertrude,  who,  though  of 
nearly  the  same  age  as  Kitty,  had  seen  too  much  trouble,  expe 
rienced  too  much  care,  to  enjoy  in  times  of  disquiet  the  privi 
lege  of  sinking  easily  to  repose.  She  felt  under  the  necessity, 
too,  of  remaining  awake  until  Isabel's  return,  that  she  might 
inform  her  what  had  become  of  Kitty,  whom  she  would  be  sure 
to  miss  from  the  room  which  they  occupied  in  common.  She 
seated  herself,  therefore,  at  the  window  to  watch  for  her  return ; 
and  was  pained  to  observe  that  Kitty  tossed  restlessly  on  her 
pillows  and  occasionally  muttered  in  her  sleep,  as  if  distressed 
by  uneasy  dreams.  It  was  past  midnight  when  Mrs.  Graham 
and  her  niece  returned  home,  and  Gertrude  went  immediately 
to  inform  the  latter  that  her  cousin  was  asleep  in  her  room. 
The  noise  of  the  carriages,  however,  had  awakened  the  sleeper, 
and  when  Gertrude  returned  she  was  rubbing  her  eyes,  and 
trying  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

Suddenly  the  recollection  of  the  scene  of  the  evening  flashed 
upon  her,  and  with  a  deep  sigh  she  exclaimed,  "  0  Gertrude ! 
I  have  been  dreaming  of  Mr.  Bruce !  Should  you  have  thought 
he  would  have  treated  me  so  ? " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  275 

"No,  I  should  not,"  said  Gertrude;  "but  I  wouldn't  dream 
about  him,  Kitty,  nor  think  of  him  any  more;  we  will  both  go 
to  sleep  and  forget  him." 

"It  is  different  with  you,"  said  Kitty  with  simplicity. 
"He  loves  you,  and  you  do  not  care  for  him;  but  I  —  I  — " 
Here  her  feelings  overpowered  her,  and  she  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillow. 

Gertrude  approached,  laid  her  hand  kindly  upon  the  head  of 
the  poor  girl,  and  finished  the  sentence  for  her.  "You  have 
such  a  large  heart,  Kitty,  that  he  found  some  place  there,  per 
haps;  but  it  is  too  good  a  heart  to  be  shared  by  the  mean  and 
base.  You  must  think  no  more  of  him  —  he  is  not  worthy  of 
your  regard." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Kitty;  "I  am  silly,  just  as  he  said." 

"No,  you  are  not,"  said  Gertrude  encouragingly;  "and  you 
must  prove  it  to  him." 

"How?" 

"Let  him  see  that,  with  all  her  softness,  Kitty  Eay  is  strong 
and  brave;  that  she  has  ceased  to  believe  his  flattery,  and  val 
ues  his  professions  at  just  what  they  are  worth." 

"Will  you  help  me,  Gertrude?  You  are  my  best  friend; 
you  took  my  part,  and  told  him  how  wicked  he  had  been  to 
me.  May  I  come  to  you  for  comfort  when  I  can't  make  believe 
happy  any  longer  to  him  and  my  aunt  and  Isabel  ? " 

Gertrude's  fervent  embrace  was  assurance  enough  of  her 
cooperation  and  sympathy. 

"  You  will  be  as  bright  and  happy  as  ever  in  a  few  weeks, " 
said  she;  "you  will  soon  cease  to  care  for  a  person  whom  you 
no  longer  respect." 

Kitty  disclaimed  the  possibility  of  ever  being  happy  again; 
but  Gertrude,  though  herself  a  novice  in  the  ways  of  the  human 
heart,  was  much  more  sanguine  and  hopeful.  She  saw  that 
Kitty's  violent  outburst  of  sobs  and  tears  was  like  a  child's 
impetuous  grief,  and  suspected  that  the  deepest  recesses  of  her 
nature  were  safe,  and  unendangered  by  the  storm. 

She  felt  a  deep  compassion  for  her,  however,  and  many  fears 
lest  she  would  be  wanting  in  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  be 
have  with  dignity  and  womanly  pride  in  her  future  intercourse 
with  Mr.  Bruce,  and  would  also  expose  herself  to  the  ridicule 
of  Isabel  and  the  contempt  of  her  aunt,  by  betraying  in  her 
looks  and  behavior  her  recent  trying  and  mortifying  experience. 


276  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Fortunately,  the  first  mentioned  trial  was  spared  her,  by  Mr, 
Bruce 's  immediately  absenting  himself  from  the  house,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days  leaving  home  for  the  remainder  of  the 
summer;  and  as  this  circumstance  involved  both  his  own  and 
Mrs.  Graham's  family  in  doubt  and  wonder  as  to  the  cause  of 
his  sudden  departure,  Kitty's  outward  trials  consisted  chiefly 
in  the  continued  and  repeated  questionings  from  her  aunt  and 
cousin,  to  which  she  was  incessantly  exposed,  as  to  her  share 
in  this  sudden  and  unlooked-for  occurrence.  Had  she  refused 
him  ?  Had  she  quarrelled  with  him  1  —  and  why  *{ 

Kitty  denied  that  she  had  done  either;  but  she  was  not 
believed,  and  the  affair  remained  a  strange  and  interesting  mys 
tery. 

Both  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel  were  aware  that  Kitty's  refus 
ing  at  the  last  moment  to  attend  the  wedding  levee  was  owing 
to  her  having  accidentally  learned,  just  before  the  carriage  drove 
to  the  door,  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  not  to  be  of  the  party ;  and  as 
they  wrung  from  her  the  confession  that  he  had  passed  a  part 
of  the  evening  at  the  house,  they  came  to  the  very  natural  con 
clusion  that  some  misunderstanding  had  arisen  between  the  sup 
posed  lovers. 

Isabel  was  too  well  acquainted  with  Kitty's  sentiments  to 
believe  she  had  voluntarily  relinquished  an  admirer  who  had 
evidently  been  highly  prized;  and  she  also  saw  that  the  sensi 
tive  girl  winced  under  every  allusion  to  the  deserter.  One 
would  have  thought,  then,  that  common  affection  and  delicacy 
would  have  taught  her  to  forbear  any  reference  to  the  painful 
subject.  But  this  was  not  the  case.  She  made  Mr.  Bruce  and 
his  strange  disappearance  her  almost  constant  topic;  and  on 
occasion  of  the  slightest  difference  or  disagreement  arising  be 
tween  herself  and  Kitty,  she  silenced  and  distressed  the  latter 
by  some  pointed  and  cutting  sarcasm  relative  to  her  late  love 
affair.  Kitty  would  then  seek  refuge  with  Gertrude,  relate  her 
trials,  and  claim  her  sympathy ;  and  she  not  only  found  in  her  a 
friendly  listener  to  her  woes,  but  invariably  acquired  in  her 
society  greater  strength  and  cheerfulness  than  she  could  else 
where  rally  to  her  aid,  so  that  she  became  gradually  dependent 
upon  her  for  the  only  peace  she  enjoyed;  and  Gertrude,  who 
felt  a  sincere  interest  in  the  girl,  who  had  been  on  her  account 
subjected  to  such  cruel  deception,  and  whose  drooping  spirits 
and  pensive  countenance  spoke  touchingly  of  her  inner  sorrow, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  277 

spared  no  pains  to  enliven  her  sadness,  divert  her  thoughts,  and 
win  her  to  those  occupations  and  amusements  in  which  she  her 
self  had  often  found  a  relief  from  preying  care  and  vexation. 

A  large  proportion  of  her  time  was  necessarily  devoted  to  her 
dearest  and  best  friend,  Emily;  but  there  was  nothing  exclu 
sive  in  Emily's  nature;  when  not  suffering  from  those  bodily 
afflictions  to  which  she  was  subject,  she  was  ever  ready  to 
extend  a  cordial  welcome  to  all  visitors  who  could  find  pleasure 
or  benefit  from  her  society ;  and  even  the  wild  and  thoughtless 
Fanny  never  felt  herself  an  intruder  in  Emily's  premises,  so 
sweet  was  the  smile  with  which  she  was  greeted,  so  forbearing 
the  indulgence  which  was  awarded  to  her  waywardness.  It  can 
hardly  be  supposed,  then,  that  Kitty  would  be  excluded  from 
her  hospitality,  especially  after  Emily,  with  a  truly  wonderful 
perception,  became  aware  that  she  was  less  gay  and  happy  than 
formerly,  and  had  therefore  an  additional  claim  upon  her  kind 
ness. 

Many  a  time,  when  Isabel  had  been  tantalizing  and  wound 
ing  Kitty  beyond  what  her  patience  could  endure,  and  Gertrude 
had  been  vainly  sought  elsewhere,  a  little  figure  would  present 
itself  at  the  half -open  door  of  Miss  Graham's  room,  and  was 
sure  to  hear  the  sweetest  of  voices  saying  from  within,  "I  hear 
you,  Kitty ;  come  in,  my  dear ;  we  shall  be  glad  of  your  pleasant 
company ; "  and  once  there,  seated  by  the  side  of  Gertrude, 
learning  from  her  some  little  art  in  needlework,  listening  to  an 
agreeable  book,  or  Emily's  more  agreeable  conversation,  Kitty 
passed  hours  which  were  never  forgotten,  so  peaceful  were  they, 
so  serene,  so  totally  unlike  any  she  had  ever  spent  before.  Nor 
did  they  fail  to  leave  a  lasting  impression  upon  her,  for  the 
benefit  of  her  mind  and  heart. 

None  could  live  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Emily,  listen 
to  her  words,  observe  the  radiance  of  her  heavenly  smile,  and 
breathe  in  the  pure  atmosphere  that  environed  her  very  being, 
and  not  carry  away  with  them  the  love  of  virtue  and  holiness, 
if  not  something  of  their  essence.  She  was  so  unselfish,  so 
patient,  notwithstanding  her  privations,  that  Kitty  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  repine  in  her  presence ;  and  there  was  a  con 
tagious  cheerfulness  ever  pervading  her  apartment,  which,  in 
spite  of  Kitty's  recent  cause  of  unhappiness,  often  led  her  to 
forget  herself,  and  break  into  her  natural  tone  of  buoyancy  and 
glee.  As  week  after  week  passed  away,  and  her  sufferings  and 


278  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

regrets,  which  at  first  were  so  vehement  and  severe,  began  to 
wear  off  as  rapidly  as  such  hurricane  sorrows  are  apt  to  do,  and 
the  process  of  cure  went  on  silently  and  unconsciously,  another 
work  at  the  same  time  progressed,  to  her  equally  salutary  and 
important.  In  her  constant  intercourse  with  the  pure  heart  and 
superior  mind  of  Emily,  and  her  still  more  familiar  intimacy 
with  one  who  had  sat  at  her  feet  and  learned  of  her,  Kitty 
imbibed  an  elevation  of  thought  and  a  worthiness  of  aim  quite 
foreign  to  her  quondam  character. 

The  foolish  child,  whose  heart  was  ensnared  by  the  flatteries 
of  Mr.  Bruce,  learned  —  partly  through  the  example  and  pre 
cepts  of  her  new  counsellors  and  friends,  and  partly  through 
her  own  bitter  experience  —  the  vanity  and  emptiness  of  the 
food  thus  administered  to  her  mind ;  and  resolving,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  to  cultivate  and  cherish  her  immortal  powers, 
she  now  developed  the  first  germs  of  her  better  nature,  which, 
expanding  in  later  years,  and  through  other  influences,  trans 
formed  the  gay,  fluttering,  vain  child  of  fashion  into  the  use 
ful,  estimable,  and  lovely  woman. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  279 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

Small  slights,  neglect,  unmixed  perhaps  with  hate, 
Make  up  in  number  what  they  want  in  weight. 
These,  and  a  thousand  griefs  minute  as  these, 
Corrode  our  comfort  and  destroy  our  ease. 

HANNAH  MOKE. 

LITTLE  did  Gertrude  imagine,  while  she  was  striving  most 
disinterestedly  to  promote  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  Kitty, 
who  had  thrown  herself  upon  her  love  and  care,  the  jealousy 
and  ill  will  she  was  exciting  in  others.  Isahel,  who  had  never 
liked  one  whose  whole  tone  of  action  and  life  was  a  continual 
reproach  to  her  own  vanity  and  selfishness,  and  who  saw  in  her 
the  additional  crime  of  being  the  favored  friend  of  a  youth  of 
whose  interesting  boyhood  she  herself  retained  a  sentimental 
recollection,  was  ready  and  eager  to  seize  the  earliest  opportu 
nity  of  rendering  her  odious  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Graham.  She 
was  not  slow  to  observe  the  remarkable  degree  of  confidence 
that  seemed  to  exist  between  Kitty  and  Gertrude;  she  remem 
bered  that  her  cousin  had  forsaken  her  own  room  for  that  of 
the  latter  the  very  night  after  her  probable  quarrel  at  parting 
with  Bruce ;  and  her  resentment  and  anger  excited  still  further 
by  the  growing  friendship  which  her  own  coldness  and  unkind- 
ness  to  Kitty  served  only  to  strengthen  and  confirm,  she  has 
tened  to  communicate  to  Mrs.  Graham  her  suspicion  that  Ger 
trude  had,  for  purposes  of  her  own,  made  a  difficulty  between 
Bruce  and  Kitty,  fostered  and  widened  the  breach,  and  suc 
ceeded  at  last  in  breaking  off  the  match. 

Mrs.  Graham  readily  adopted  Belle's  opinion.  "Kitty," 
said  she,  "is  weak  minded,  and  evidently  very  much  under 
Miss  Flint's  influence.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  were 
right,  Belle!" 

Thus  leagued  together,  they  endeavored  to  surprise  or  entrap 
Kitty  into  a  confession  of  the  means  which  had  been  taken  by 
Gertrude  to  drive  away  her  lover  and  outwit  herself.  But 
Kitty,  while  she  indignantly  denied  Gertrude's  having  thus  in- 


280  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

jured  her,  persisted  obstinately  in  refusing  to  reveal  the  occur 
rences  of  the  eventful  evening  of  the  wedding  levee.  It  was 
the  first  secret  Kitty  ever  did  keep;  but  her  woman's  pride  was 
involved  in  the  affair,  and  she  preserved  it  with  a  care  which 
both  honor  and  wisdom  prompted. 

Mrs.  Graham  and  Belle  were  now  truly  angry,  and  many 
were  the  private  discussions  held  by  them  on  the  subject,  many 
the  vain  conjectures  which  they  conjured  up;  and  as,  day  after 
day,  they  became  more  and  more  incensed  against  Gertrude,  so 
they  gradually  began  to  manifest  it  in  their  demeanor. 

Gertrude  soon  perceived  the  incivility  to  which  she  was  con 
stantly  subjected;  for  though  in  a  great  degree  independent  of 
their  friendship,  she  could  not  live  under  the  same  roof  without 
their  having  frequent  opportunities  to  wound  her  by  their  rude 
ness,  which  soon  became  marked,  and  would  have  been  unen 
durable  to  one  whose  disposition  was  less  thoroughly  schooled 
than  Gertrude's. 

With  wonderful  patience,  however,  did  she  preserve  her 
equanimity.  She  had  never  looked  for  kindness  and  attention 
from  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel.  She  had  seen  from  the  first 
that  between  herself  and  them  there  could  be  little  sympathy, 
and  now  that  they  manifested  open  dislike  she  struggled  hard 
to  maintain,  on  her  part,  not  only  self-command  and  compo 
sure,  but  a  constant  spirit  of  charity.  It  was  well  that  she  did 
not  yield  to  this  comparatively  light  trial  of  her  forbearance, 
for  a  new,  unexpected,  and  far  more  intense  provocation  was 
in  store  for  her.  Her  malicious  persecutors,  incensed  and  irri 
tated  by  an  unlooked-for  calmness  and  patience,  which  gave 
them  no  advantage  in  their  one-sided  warfare,  now  made  their 
attack  in  another  quarter;  and  Emily,  the  sweet,  lovely,  unof 
fending  Emily,  became  the  object  against  whom  they  aimed 
many  of  their  shafts  of  unkindness  and  ill  will. 

Gertrude  could  bear  injury,  injustice,  and  even  hard  and  cruel 
language,  when  exercised  towards  herself  only ;  but  her  blood 
boiled  in  her  veins  when  she  began  to  perceive  that  her  cher 
ished  Emily  was  becoming  the  victim  of  mean  and  petty  neglect 
and  ill  usage.  To  address  the  gentle  Emily  in  other  words  than 
those  of  courtesy  was  next  to  impossible;  it  was  equally  hard 
to  find  fault  with  the  actions  of  one  whose  life  was  so  good  and 
beautiful;  and  the  somewhat  isolated  position  which  she  occu 
pied  on  account  of  her  blindness  seemed  to  render  her  secure 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  281 

from  interference;  but  Mrs.  Graham  was  coarse  and  blunt,  Isa 
bel  selfish  and  unfeeling,  and  long  before  the  blind  girl  was 
herself  aware  of  any  unkind  intention  on  their  part,  Gertrude's 
spirit  had  chafed  and  rebelled  at  the  sight  and  knowledge  of 
many  a  word  and  act,  well  calculated,  if  perceived,  to  annoy 
and  distress  a  sensitive  and  delicate  spirit.  Many  a  stroke  was 
warded  off  by  Gertrude;  many  a  neglect  atoned  for,  before  it 
could  be  felt;  many  a  nearly  defeated  plan,  which  Emily  was 
known  to  have  had  at  heart,  carried  through  and  accomplished 
by  Gertrude's  perseverance  and  energy;  and  for  some  weeks 
Emily  was  kept  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  many  a  little  office 
formerly  performed  for  her  by  a  servant  was  now  fulfilled  by 
Gertrude,  who  would  not  let  her  know  that  Bridget  had  re 
ceived  from  her  mistress  orders  which  were  quite  inconsistent 
with  her  usual  attendance  upon  Miss  Graham's  wants. 

Mr.  Graham  was,  at  this  time,  absent  from  home ;  some  dif 
ficulty  and  anxiety  in  business  matters  having  called  him  to  New 
York,  at  a  season  when  he  usually  enjoyed  his  leisure,  free  from 
all  such  cares.  His  presence  would  have  been  a  great  restraint 
upon  his  wife,  who  was  well  aware  of  his  devoted  affection  for 
his  daughter,  and  his  wish  that  her  comfort  and  ease  should 
always  be  considered  of  first-rate  importance.  Indeed,  his  love 
and  thoughtfulness  for  Emily,  and  the  enthusiastic  devotion 
manifested  towards  her  by  every  member  of  the  household,  had 
early  rendered  her  an  object  of  jealousy  to  Mrs.  Graham,  who 
was  therefore  very  willing  to  find  ground  of  offence  against  her ; 
and  in  her  case,  as  in  Isabel's,  Kitty's  desertion  to  what  her 
aunt  and  cousin  considered  the  unfriendly  party  was  only  a 
secondary  cause  of  distrust  and  dislike. 

The  misunderstanding  with  Mr.  Bruce,  and  their  unworthy 
suspicions  of  its  having  been  fostered  by  Gertrude,  aided  and 
abetted  by  Emily,  furnished,  however,  an  ostensible  motive  for 
the  indulgence  of  their  animosity,  and  one  of  which  they  re 
solved  to  avail  themselves  to  the  utmost. 

Shortly  before  Mr.  Graham's  return  home,  Mrs.  Graham  and 
Isabel  were  sitting  together,  endeavoring  to  while  away  the 
tedious  hours  of  a  sultry  August  afternoon  by  indulging  them 
selves  in  an  unlimited  abuse  of  the  rest  of  the  household,  when 
a  letter  was  brought  to  Mrs.  Graham,  which  proved  to  be  from 
her  husband.  After  glancing  over  its  contents,  she  remarked, 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  "Here  is  good  news  for  us,  Isabel, 


282  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

and  a  prospect  of  some  pleasure  in  the  world ; "  and  she  read 
aloud  the  following  passage:  "The  troublesome  affair  which 
called  me  here  is  nearly  settled,  and  the  result  is  exceedingly 
favorable  to  my  wishes  and  plans.  I  now  see  nothing  to  pre 
vent  our  starting  for  Europe  the  latter  part  of  next  month,  and 
the  girls  must  make  their  arrangements  accordingly.  Tell 
Emily  to  spare  nothing  towards  a  full  and  complete  equipment 
for  herself  and  Gertrude." 

"He  speaks  of  Gertrude,"  said  Isabel  sneeringly,  "as  if  she 
were  one  of  the  family.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  any  very  great 
prospect  of  pleasure  in  travelling  all  through  Europe  with  a 
blind  woman  and  her  disagreeable  appendages;  I  can't  think 
what  Mr.  Graham  wants  to  take  them  for." 

"I  wish  he  would  leave  them  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Graham; 
"it  would  be  a  good  punishment  for  Gertrude.  But  mercy! 
he  would  as  soon  think  of  going  without  his  right  hand  as 
without  Emily." 

"I  hope  if  ever  I  am  married,"  exclaimed  Isabel,  "it  won't 
be  to  a  man  that 's  got  a  blind  daughter!  Such  a  dreadful  good 
person,  too,  whom  everybody  has  got  to  worship  and  admire  and 
wait  upon ! " 

" I  don't  have  to  wait  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Graham;  "that 's 
Gertrude's  business  —  it 's  what  she  's  going  for." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it;  blind  girl  has  to  have  a  waiting 
maid,  and  waiting  maid  is  a  great  lady,  who  doesn't  mind 
cheating  your  nieces  out  of  their  lovers,  and  even  robbing  them 
of  each  other's  affection." 

"Well,  what  can  I  do,  Belle?  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  Ger 
trude's  company  any  more  than  you  do;  but  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  get  rid  of  her." 

"I  should  think  you  'd  tell  Mr.  Graham  some  of  the  harm 
she  's  done  already.  If  you  have  any  influence  over  him,  you 
might  prevent  her  going." 

"It  would  be  no  more  than  she  deserves,"  said  Mrs.  Graham 
thoughtfully,  "and  I  am  not  sure  but  I  shall  give  him  a  hint 
of  her  behavior;  he'll  be  surprised  enough  when  he  hears  of 
Bruce' s  sudden  flight.  I  know  he  thought  it  would  be  a  match 
between  him  and  Kitty." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Isabel  was  summoned  to 
see  visitors,  and  left'  her  aunt  in  a  mood  pregnant  with  conse 
quences. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  283 

As  Isabel  descended  the  front  staircase,  to  meet  with  smiles 
and  compliments  the  guests  whom  in  her  heart  she  wished  a 
thousand  miles  away  on  this  intensely  hot  afternoon,  Gertrude 
came  up  by  the  back  way  from  the  kitchen,  and  passed  along 
a  passage  leading  to  her  own  room.  She  carried  over  one  arm 
a  dress  of  delicate  white  muslin,  and  a  number  of  embroidered 
collars,  sleeves,  and  ruffles,  together  with  other  articles  evidently 
fresh  from  the  ironing-board.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  heated ; 
she  looked  tired,  and  as  she  reached  her  room,  and  carefully 
deposited  her  burden  upon  the  bed,  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as 
if  much  fatigued,  seated  herself  by  a  window,  brushed  the  hair 
back  from  her  face,  and  threw  open  a  blind,  to  feel,  if  possible, 
a  breath  of  cool  air.  Just  at  this  moment,  Mrs.  Prime  put  her 
head  in  at  the  half-open  door,  and  seeing  Gertrude  alone,  entered 
the  room,  but  stood  fixed  with  astonishment  on  observing  the 
evidences  of  her  recent  laborious  employment;  then  glancing 
directly  opposite  at  the  fruits  of  her  diligence,  she  burst  forth 
indignantly,  "My  sakes  alive!  Miss  Gertrude,  I  do  believe 
you  've  been  doin'  up  them  muslins  yourself,  after  all! " 

Gertrude  smiled,  but  did  not  reply. 

"Now,  if  that  ain't  too  bad!"  said  the  friendly  and  kind- 
hearted  woman,  "to  think  you  should  ha'  been  at  work  down 
in  that  'ere  hot  kitchen,  and  all  the  rest  on  us  takin'  a  spell  o* 
rest  in  the  heat  of  the  day!  I  '11  warrant  if  Miss  Emily  knew 
it,  she  'd  never  put  on  that  white  gown  in  this  'ere  world! " 

"It  hardly  looks  fit  for  her  to  wear,"  said  Gertrude.  "I  'm 
not  much  used  to  ironing,  and  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trou 
ble  with  it;  one  side  got  dry  before  I  could  smooth  out  the 
other." 

"It  looks  elegant,  Miss  Gertrude;  but  what  should  you  be 
doin'  Bridget's  work  for,  I  want  to  know? " 

"Bridget  always  has  enough  to  do,"  said  Gertrude,  evading 
a  direct  answer,  "and  it 's  very  well  for  me  to  have  some  prac 
tice.  Knowledge  never  comes  amiss,  you  know,  Mrs.  Prime." 

;"T  ain't  no  kind  of  an  afternoon  for  'speriments  o'  that 
sort;  and  you  wouldn't  ha'  done  it,  I  '11  venture  to  say,  if  you 
hadn't  been  afeard  Miss  Emily  would  want  her  things,  and 
find  out  they  wasn't  done.  Times  is  changed  in  this  house, 
when  Mr.  Graham's  own  daughter,  that  was  once  to  the  head  of 
everything,  has  to  have  her  clothes  laid  by  to  make  room  for 
other  folks.  Bridget  ought  to  know  better  than  to  mind  these 


284  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

upstarters,  when  they  tell  her,  as  I  heard  Miss  Graham  yester* 
day;  to  let  alone  that  heap  o'  muslins,  and  attend  to  something 
that  was  o'  more  consequence.  Our  Katy  would  ha'  known  bet 
ter:  but  Bridget's  a  newcomer,  like  all  the  rest.  Thinks  I 
to  myself,  then,  what  would  Miss  Gertrude  say,  if  she  sus 
pected  as  how  Miss  Emily  was  bein'  neglected  ?  But  I  '11  tell 
Miss  Emily,  as  sure  as  my  name  's  Prime,  just  how  things 
go;  you  sha'n't  get  so  red  in  the  face  with  ironing  ag'in,  Miss 
Gertrude.  If  the  kind  o'  frocks  she  likes  to  wear  can't  be  done 
up  at  home,  —  and  yourn  too,  what 's  more,  —  the  washin'  ought 
to  be  put  out.  There  's  money  enough,  and  some  of  it  ought  to 
be  spent  for  the  use  o'  the  ladies  as  is  ladies !  I  wish  to  heart 
that  Isabella  could  have  to  start  round  a  little  lively;  'twould 
do  her  good;  but  Lor',  Miss  Gertrude,  it  goes  right  to  my  heart 
to  see  all  the  vexatious  things  as  is  happenin'  nowadays !  I  '11 
go  right  to  Miss  Emily,  this  minute,  and  blow  my  blast ! " 

"No,  you  won't,  Mrs.  Prime,"  said  Gertrude  persuasively, 
"when  I  ask  you  not  to.  You  forget  how  unhappy  it  would 
make  her  if  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Graham  was  so  wanting  in 
consideration.  I  would  rather  iron  dresses  every  day,  or  do 
anything  else  for  our  dear  Miss  Emily,  than  to  let  her  suspect 
even  that  anybody  could  willingly  be  unkind  to  her." 

Mrs.  Prime  hesitated.  "Miss  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "I 
thought  I  loved  our  dear  young  lady  as  well  as  anybody  could, 
but  I  believe  you  love  her  better  still,  to  be  so  thoughtful  and 
wise-like  all  for  her  sake;  and  I  wouldn't  say  nothin'  about  it, 
only  I  think  a  sight  o'  you,  too;  you  've  been  here  ever  since 
you  was  a  little  gal,  and  we  all  set  lots  by  you,  and  I  can't  see 
them  folks  ride  over  your  head,  as  I  know  they  mean  to." 

"I  know  you  love  me,  Mrs.  Prime,  and  Emily  too;  so,  for 
the  sake  of  us  both,  you  must  n't  say  a  word  to  anybody  about 
the  change  in  the  family  arrangements.  We  '11  all  do  what  we 
can  to  keep  Emily  from  pain,  and  as  to  the  rest,  we  won't  care 
for  ourselves;  if  they  don't  pet  and  indulge  me  as  much  as 
I've  been  accustomed  to,  the  easiest  way  is  not  to  notice  it; 
and  you  mustn't  put  on  your  spectacles  to  see  trouble." 

"Lord  bless  yer  heart,  Miss  Gertrude,  them  folks  is  lucky 
to  have  you  to  deal  with;  it  isn't  everybody  as  would  put  up 
with  'em.  They  don't  come  much  in  my  way,  thank  fortin! 
I  let  Miss  Graham  see  right  off  that  I  would  n't  put  up  with 
interference;  cooks  is  privileged  to  set  up  for  their  rights,  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  285 

I  scared  her  out  o'  ray  premises  pretty  quick,  I  tell  yer!  It  'a 
mighty  hard  for  me  to  see  our  own  ladies  imposed  upon;  but 
since  you  say  *  mum, '  Miss  Gertrude,  I  '11  try  and  hold  my 
tongue  as  long  as  I  can.  It  's  a  shame,  though,  I  do  declare!  " 
and  Mrs.  Prime  walked  off,  muttering  to  herself. 

An  hour  after,  Gertrude  was  at  the  glass,  braiding  up  the 
bands  of  her  long  hair,  when  Mrs.  Ellis,  after  a  slight  knock 
at  the  door,  entered. 

"Well,  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "I  didn't  think  it  would  come 
to  this!" 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter? "  inquired  Gertrude  anxiously. 

"  It  seems  we  are  going  to  be  turned  out  of  our  rooms ! " 

"Who?" 

"You,  and  I  next,  for  aught  I  know." 

Gertrude  colored,  but  did  not  speak,  and  Mrs.  Ellis  went  on 
to  relate  that  she  had  just  received  orders  to  fit  up  Gertrude's 
room  for  some  visitors  who  were  expected  the  next  day.  She 
was  astonished  to  hear  that  Gertrude  had  not  been  consulted 
on  the  subject.  Mrs.  Graham  had  spoken  so  carelessly  of  her 
removal,  and  seemed  to  think  it  so  mutually  agreeable  for  Emily 
to  share  her  apartment  with  her  young  friend,  that  Mrs.  Ellis 
concluded  the  matter  had  been  prearranged. 

Deeply  wounded  and  vexed,  both  on  her  own  and  Emily's 
account,  Gertrude  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and  irresolute. 
She  then  asked  if  Mrs.  Ellis  had  spoken  to  Emily  on  the  sub 
ject.  She  had  not.  Gertrude  begged  her  to  say  nothing 
about  it. 

"I  cannot  bear,"  said  she,  "to  let  her  know  that  the  little 
sanctum  she  fitted  up  so  carefully  has  been  unceremoniously 
taken  from  me.  I  sleep  in  her  room  more  than  half  the  time, 
as  you  know ;  but  she  always  likes  to  have  me  call  this  cham 
ber  mine,  that  I  may  be  sure  of  a  place  where  I  can  read  and 
study  by  myself.  If  you  will  let  me  remove  my  bureau  into 
your  room,  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  sleep  on  a  couch  there  occasionally, 
we  need  not  say  anything  about  it  to  Emily." 

Mrs.  Ellis  assented.  She  had  grown  strangely  humble  and 
compliant  within  a  few  months,  and  Gertrude  had  completely 
won  her  good  will;  first  by  forbearance,  and  latterly  by  the 
frequent  favors  and  assistance  she  had  found  it  in  her  power 
to  render  the  overburdened  housekeeper.  So  she  made  no 
objection  to  receive  her  into  her  room  as  an  inmate,  and  even 


286  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

offered  to  assist  in  the  removal  of  her  wardrobe,  work  tahle,  and 
books. 

But  though  yielding  and  considerate  towards  Gertrude, 
whom,  with  Emily  and  Mrs.  Prime,  she  now  considered  mem 
bers  of  the  oppressed  and  injured  party  to  which  she  herself 
belonged,  no  words  could  express  her  indignation  with  regard 
to  the  late  behavior  of  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel.  "It  is  all  a 
piece,"  said  she,  "with  the  rest  of  their  conduct!  Sometimes 
I  almost  feel  thankful  that  Emily  is  blind :  it  would  grieve  her 
so  to  see  the  goings  on.  I  should  have  liked  to  box  Isabella's 
ears  for  taking  your  seat  at  the  table  so  impudently  as  she  did 
yesterday,  and  then  neglecting  to  help  Emily  to  anything  at 
all ;  and  there  sat  dear  Emily,  angel  as  she  is,  all  unconscious 
of  her  shameful  behavior,  and  asking  her  for  butter  as  sweetly 
as  if  it  were  by  mere  accident  that  you  had  been  driven  from 
the  table,  and  she  left  to  provide  for  herself.  And  all  those 
strangers  there,  too !  I  saw  it  all  from  the  china  closet !  And 
then  Emily's  dresses  and  muslins!  —  there  they  laid  in  the 
press  drawer,  till  I  thought  they  would  mildew.  I  'm  glad  to 
see  Bridget  has  been  allowed  to  do  them  at  last,  for  I  began 
to  think  Emily  would  one  of  these  warm  days  be  without  a 
clean  gown  in  the  world.  But  there,  it 's  no  use  talking  about 
it;  all  I  wish  is,  that  they  'd  all  go  off  to  Europe  and  leave  us 
here  to  ourselves.  You  don't  want  to  go,  do  you,  Gertrude?" 

"Yes,  if  Emily  goes." 

"Well,  you're  better  than  I  am;  I  couldn't  make  such  a 
martyr  of  myself,  even  for  her  sake.r 

It  is  needless  to  detail  the  many  petty  annoyances  to  which 
Gertrude  was  daily  subjected;  especially  after  the  arrival  of 
the  expected  visitors,  a  gay  and  thoughtless  party  of  fashion 
ables,  who  were  taught  to  look  upon  her  as  an  unwarrantable 
intruder,  and  upon  Emily  as  a  troublesome  incumbrance.  Nor, 
with  all  the  pains  taken  to  prevent  it,  could  Emily  be  long 
kept  in  ignorance  of  the  light  estimation  in  which  both  herself 
and  Gertrude  were  regarded.  Kitty,  incensed  at  the  incivility 
of  her  aunt  and  Isabel,  and  indifferent  towards  the  visitors,  to 
whose  folly  and  levity  of  character  her  eyes  were  now  partially 
opened,  hesitated  not  to  express  both  to  Emily  and  Gertrude 
her  sense  of  the  injuries  they  sustained,  and  her  own  desire  to 
act  in  their  defence.  But  Kitty  was  no  formidable  antagonist 
to  Mrs.  Graham  and  Belle,  for,  her  spirits  greatly  subdued  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  287 

her  fears  constantly  excited  by  her  cousin's  sarcastic  looks  and 
speeches,  she  had  become  a  sad  coward,  and  no  longer  dared,  as 
she  would  once  have  done,  to  thwart  their  schemes,  and  stand 
between  her  friends  and  the  indignities  to  which  they  were 
exposed. 

But  Mrs.  Graham,  thoughtless  woman,  went  too  far,  and 
became  at  last  entangled  in  difficulties  of  her  own  weaving.  Her 
husband  returned,  and  now  it  became  necessary  to  set  bounds 
to  her  own  insolence,  and,  what  was  far  more  difficult,  to  that 
of  Isabel.  Mrs.  Graham  was  a  woman  of  tact;  she  knew  just 
how  far  her  husband's  forbearance  would  extend,  just  the  point 
to  which  his  perceptions  might  be  blinded;  and  had  also  suffi 
cient  self-control  to  check  herself  in  any  course  which  would 
be  likely  to  prove  obnoxious  to  his  imperious  will.  In  his 
absence,  however,  she  acted  without  restraint,  permitted  Belle 
to  fill  the  house  with  her  lively  young  acquaintances,  and 
winked  at  the  many  open  and  flagrant  violations  of  the  law  of 
politeness,  manifested  by  the  young  people  towards  the  daugh 
ter  of  their  absent  host,  and  her  youthful  friend  and  attendant. 
Now,  however,  a  check  must  be  put  to  all  indecorous  proceed 
ings;  and  unfortunately  for  the  execution  of  the  wife's  wise 
precautions,  the  head  of  the  family  returned  unexpectedly,  and 
under  circumstances  which  forestalled  any  preparation  or  warn 
ing.  He  arrived  just  at  dusk,  having  come  from  town  in  an 
omnibus,  which  was  quite  contrary  to  his  usual  custom. 

It  was  a  cool  evening;  the  windows  and  doors  of  the  house 
were  closed,  and  the  parlor  was  so  brilliantly  lighted  that  he 
at  once  suspected  the  truth  that  a  large  company  was  being 
entertained  there.  He  felt  vexed,  for  it  was  Saturday  night, 
and,  in  accordance  with  old  New  England  customs,  Mr.  Gra 
ham  loved  to  see  his  household  quiet  on  that  evening.  He 
was,  moveover,  suffering  from  a  violent  headache,  and  avoiding 
the  parlor,  he  passed  on  to  the  library,  and  then  to  the  dining- 
room;  both  were  chilly  and  deserted.  He  then  made  his  way 
upstairs,  walked  through  several  rooms,  glanced  indignantly  at 
their  disordered  and  slovenly  appearance,  —  for  he  was  exces 
sively  neat,  — and  finally  gained  Emily's  chamber.  He  opened 
the  door  noiselessly,  and  looked  in. 

A  bright  wood  fire  burned  upon  the  hearth;  a  couch  was 
drawn  up  beside  it,  on  which  Emily  was  sitting;  and  Gertrude's 
little  rocking-chair  occupied  the  opposite  corner.  The  firelight 


288  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

reflected  upon  the  white  curtains,  the  fragrant  perfume  which 
proceeded  from  a  basket  of  flowers  upon  the  table,  the  perfect 
neatness  and  order  of  the  apartment,  the  placid,  peaceful  face 
of  Emily,  and  the  radiant  expression  of  Gertrude's  countenance, 
as  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  father  and  protector  of  her  blind 
friend  looking  pleasantly  in  upon  them,  proved  such  a  charm 
ing  contrast  to  the  scenes  presented  in  other  parts  of  the  house 
that  the  old  gentleman,  warmed  to  more  than  usual  satisfaction 
with  both  of  the  inmates,  greeted  his  surprised  daughter  with 
a  hearty  paternal  embrace,  and  bestowing  upon  Gertrude  an 
equally  affectionate  greeting,  exclaimed,  as  he  took  the  arm 
chair  which  the  latter  wheeled  in  front  of  the  fire  for  his  ac 
commodation,  "Now,  girls,  this  looks  pleasant  and  homelike! 
What  in  the  world  is  going  on  downstairs  1  What  is  every 
thing  up  in  arms  about  1 " 

Emily  explained  that  there  was  company  staying  in  the 
house. 

"  Ugh !  company !  "  grunted  Mr.  Graham  in  a  dissatisfied 
tone.  "I  should  think  so!  Been  emptying  rag- bags  about 
the  chambers,  I  should  say,  from  the  looks ! " 

Gertrude  asked  if  he  had  been  to  tea. 

He  had  not,  and  should  be  thankful  for  some ;  he  was  tired. 
So  she  went  downstairs  to  see  about  it. 

"Don't  tell  anybody  that  I  've  got  home,  Gerty,"  called  he, 
as  she  left  the  room ;  "  I  want  to  be  left  in  peace,  to-night,  at 
least." 

While  Gertrude  was  gone,  Mr.  Graham  questioned  Emily  as 
to  her  preparations  for  the  European  tour;  to  his  surprise,  he 
learned  that  she  had  never  received  his  message  communicated 
in  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and  knew  nothing  of  his  plans. 
Equally  astonished  and  angry,  he  nevertheless  restrained  his 
temper  for  the  present.  He  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  to 
himself,  far  less  to  his  daughter,  that  his  commands  had  been 
disregarded  by  his  wife.  It  put  him  upon  thinking,  however. 

After  he  had  enjoyed  a  comfortable  repast,  at  which  Gertrude 
presided,  they  both  returned  to  Emily 's  room;  and  now  Mr. 
Graham's  first  inquiry  was  for  the  Evening  Transcript. 

"I  will  go  for  it,"  said  Gertrude,  rising. 

"  Ring !  "  said  Mr.  Graham  imperatively.  He  had  observed 
at  the  tea-table  that  Gertrude's  ring  was  disregarded,  and 
wished  to  know  the  cause  of  so  strange  a  piece  of  neglect. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  289 

Gertrude  rang  several  times,  but  obtained  no  answer  to  the 
bell.  At  last  she  heard  Bridget's  step  in  the  entry,  and  open 
ing  the  door,  said  to  her,  "Bridget,  won't  you  find  the  Tran 
script,  and  bring  it  to  Miss  Emily's  room."  Bridget  soon  re 
turned,  with  the  announcement  that  Miss  Isabella  was  reading  it, 
and  declined  to  give  it  up. 

A  storm  gathered  on  Mr.  Graham's  brow.  "Such  a  message 
to  my  daughter  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "Gertrude,  go  yourself,  and 
tell  the  impertinent  girl  that  /  want  the  paper !  What  sort  of 
behavior  is  this  1 "  muttered  he. 

Gertrude  entered  the  parlor  with  great  composure,  and  amid 
the  stares  and  wonder  of  the  company,  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to 
Belle,  who  immediately  yielded  up  the  paper,  blushing  and 
looking  much  confused  as  she  did  so.  Belle  was  afraid  of  Mr. 
Graham,  and  on  her  informing  her  aunt  of  his  return,  it  was 
that  lady's  turn  also  to  look  disconcerted.  She  had  fully  cal 
culated  upon  seeing  her  husband  before  he  had  access  to  Emily ; 
she  knew  the  importance  of  giving  the  desired  bias  to  a  man 
of  his  strong  prejudices. 

But  it  was  too  late  now.  She  would  not  go  to  seek  him ; 
she  must  take  her  chance,  and  trust  to  fortune  to  befriend  her. 
She  used  all  her  tact,  however,  to  disperse  her  friends  at  an 
early  hour,  and  then  found  Mr.  Graham  smoking  in  the  dining- 
room. 

He  was  in  an  unpleasant  mood  (as  she  told  her  niece  after 
wards,  cross  as  a  bear) ;  but  she  contrived  to  conciliate  rather 
than  irritate  him,  avoided  all  discordant  subjects,  and  was  able 
the  next  morning  to  introduce  to  her  friends  an  apparently 
affable  and  obliging  host. 

This  serenity  was  disturbed,  however,  long  before  the  Sab 
bath  drew  to  a  close.  As  he  walked  up  the  church  aisle,  be 
fore  morning  service,  with  Emily,  according  to  invariable  cus 
tom,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  his  brow  darkened  at  seeing  Isabel 
complacently  seated  in  that  corner  of  the  old-fashioned  square 
pew  which  all  the  family  were  well  aware  had  for  years  been 
sacred  to  his  blind  daughter.  Mrs.  Graham,  who  accompanied 
them,  winked  at  her  niece;  but  Isabel  was  mentally  rather 
obtuse,  and  was  consequently  subjected  to  the  mortification  of 
having  Mr.  Graham  deliberately  take  her  hand  and  remove  her 
from  the  seat,  in  which  he  immediately  placed  Emily,  while 
the  displaced  occupant,  who  had  been  so  mean  as  for  the  last 


290  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

three  Sundays  to  purposely  deprive  Miss  Graham  of  this  old 
established  right,  was  compelled  to  sit  during  the  service  in  the 
only  vacant  place,  beside  Mr.  Graham,  with  her  back  to  the  pul 
pit.  And  very  angry  was  she  at  observing  the  smiles  visible 
upon  many  countenances  in  the  neighboring  pews,  and  espe 
cially  chagrined  when  Fanny  Bruce,  who  was  close  to  her  in  the 
next  pew,  giggled  outright. 

Emily  would  have  been  grieved  if  she  had  been  in  the  least 
aware  of  the  triumph  she  had  unconsciously  achieved.  But 
her  heart  and  thoughts  were  turned  upward,  and  as  she  had 
felt  no  pang  of  provocation  at  Isabel's  past  encroachment,  so 
had  she  no  consciousness  of  present  satisfaction,  except  as  the 
force  of  habit  made  her  feel  more  at  ease  in  her  old  seat. 

Mr.  Graham  had  not  been  at  home  a  week  before  he  under 
stood  plainly  the  existing  state  of  feeling  in  the  mind  of  his 
wife  and  Isabel,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  likely  to  act 
upon  the  happiness  of  the  household.  He  saw  that  Emily  was 
superior  to  complaint;  he  knew  that  she  had  never  in  her  life 
complained;  he  observed,  too,  Gertrude's  devotion  to  his  much- 
loved  child,  and  it  stamped  her  in  his  mind  as  one  who  had  a 
claim  to  his  regard  which  should  never  be  disputed.  It  is  not, 
then,  to  be  wondered  at,  that  when,  with  much  art  and  many 
plausible  words,  Mrs.  Graham  made  her  intended  insinuations 
against  his  youthful  protegee,  Mr.  Graham  treated  them  with 
indifference  and  contempt. 

He  had  known  Gertrude  from  a  child.  She  was  high-spir 
ited,  —  he  had  sometimes  thought  her  wilful,  —  but  never  mean 
or  false.  It  was  no  use  to  tell  him  all  that  nonsense ;  he  was 
glad,  for  his  part,  that  it  was  all  off  between  Kitty  and  Bruce; 
for  Ben  was  an  idle  fellow,  and  would  never  make  a  good  hus 
band;  and  as  to  Kitty,  he  thought  her  much  improved  of  late, 
and  if  it  were  owing  to  Gertrude's  influence,  the  more  they  saw 
of  each  other  the  better. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  in  despair.  "It  is  all  settled,"  said  she 
to  Isabel.  "It  is  no  use  to  contest  the  point;  Mr.  Graham  is 
firm  as  a  rock,  and  as  sure  as  we  go  to  Europe,  Emily  and  Ger 
trude  will  go  too." 

She  was  almost  startled,  therefore,  by  what  she  considered 
an  excess  of  good  luck,  when  informed,  a  few  days  afterwards, 
that  the  couple  she  had  so  dreaded  to  have  of  the  party  were 
in  reality  to  be  left  behind,  and  that,  too,  at  Miss  Graham's 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  291 

special  request.  Emily's  scruples  with  regard  to  mentioning 
to  her  father  the  little  prospect  of  pleasure  the  tour  was  likely 
to  afford  her  all  vanished  when  she  found  that  Gertrude,  whose 
interest  she  ever  had  at  heart,  would  be  likely  to  prove  a  still 
greater  sufferer  from  the  society  to  which  she  would  be  sub 
jected. 

Blind  as  she  was,  Emily  understood  and  perceived  almost 
everything  that  was  passing  around  her.  Quick  of  perception, 
and  with  a  hearing  rendered  doubly  intense  by  her  want  of 
sight,  the  events  of  the  summer  were  perhaps  more  familiar 
to  her  than  to  any  other  member  of  the  family.  She  more  than 
suspected  the  exact  state  of  matters  betwixt  Mr.  Bruce  and 
Gertrude,  though  the  latter  had  never  spoken  to  her  on  the 
subject.  She  imagined  the  manner  in  which  Kitty  was  in 
volved  in  the  affair  (no  very  difficult  thing  to  be  conceived  by 
one  who  enjoyed  the  confidences  which  the  simple-hearted  girl 
unconsciously,  but  continually,  made  during  her  late  intercourse 
with  her). 

As  Mrs.  Graham's  and  Isabel's  abuse  of  power  became  more 
open  and  decided,  Mrs.  Ellis  and  Mrs.  Prime  both  considered 
the  embargo  upon  free  speech  in  Miss  Graham's  presence  wholly 
removed;  and  any  pain  which  the  knowledge  of  their  neglect 
might  have  caused  her  was  more  than  compensated  to  Emily 
by  the  proofs  it  had  called  forth  of  devoted  attachment  and 
willing  service  on  the  part  of  her  adopted  child,  as  she  loved 
to  consider  Gertrude. 

Calmly,  and  without  hesitation,  as  without  excitement,  did 
she  resolve  to  adopt  a  course  which  should  at  once  free  Ger 
trude  from  her  self-sacrificing  service.  That  she  encountered 
much  opposition  from  her  father  may  well  be  imagined;  but 
he  knew  too  well  the  impossibility  of  any  pleasure  to  be  de 
rived  to  herself  from  a  tour  in  which  mental  pain  was  added 
to  outward  deprivation,  to  persist  in  urging  her  to  accompany 
the  party;  and  concluding  at  last  that  it  was,  after  all,  the 
only  way  to  reconcile  opposing  interests,  and  that  Emily's  plan 
was  perhaps  the  best  that  could  be  adopted  under  the  circum 
stances,  decided  to  resign  himself  to  the  long  separation  from 
his  daughter,  and  permit  her  to  be  happy  in  her  own  way.  He 
had  seen,  during  the  previous  winter  at  the  south,  how  entirely 
Emily's  infirmity  unfitted  her  for  travelling,  especially  when 
deprived  of  Gertrude's  attendant  eyes;  he  now  realized  how 


292  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

totally  contrary  to  her  tastes  and  habits  were  the  tastes  and 
habits  of  his  new  wife  and  her  nieces ;  and  unwilling  to  be  con 
vinced  of  the  folly  of  his  sudden  choice,  and  the  probable  chance 
of  unhappiness  arising  from  it,  he  appreciated  the  wisdom  of 
Emily's  proposal,  and  felt  a  sense  of  relief  in  the  adoption  of  a 
course  which  would  satisfy  all  parties. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  29* 


CHAPTEK   XXXIV 

A  course  of  days,  composing  happy  months. 

WORDSWORTH. 

MRS.  WARREN'S  pleasant  boarding-house  was  the  place 
chosen  by  Emily  for  her  own  and  Gertrude's  winter  home; 
and  one  month  from  the  time  of  Mr.  Graham's  return  from 
New  York  his  country  house  was  closed,  he,  with  his  wife, 
Isabel  and  Kitty,  were  on  their  way  to  Havre ;  Mrs.  Ellis  gone 
to  enjoy  a  little  rest  from  care  with  some  cousins  at  the  east 
ward;  and  Mrs.  Prime  established  as  cook  in  Mrs.  Warren's 
household,  where  all  the  morning  she  grumbled  at  the  increase 
of  duty  she  was  here  called  upon  to  perform,  and  all  the  even 
ing  blessed  her  stars  that  she  was  still  under  the  same  roof 
with  her  dear  young  ladies. 

Although  ample  arrangements  were  made  by  Mr.  Graham, 
and  all-sufficient  means  provided  for  the  support  of  both  Emily 
and  Gertrude,  the  latter  was  anxious  to  be  once  more  usefully 
employed,  and  therefore  resumed  a  portion  of  her  school  du 
ties  at  Mr.  W.  's.  Much  as  Emily  loved  Gertrude's  constant 
presence,  she  gladly  resigned  her  for  a  few  hours  every  day, 
rejoiced  in  the  spirit  which  prompted  her  exertions,  and  re 
warded  her  with  her  encouragement  and  praise.  In  the  undis 
turbed  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society,  and  in  their  inter 
course  with  a  small  but  intelligent  circle  of  friends,  they  passed 
a  season  of  sweet  tranquillity.  They  read,  walked,  and  com 
muned,  as  in  times  long  past.  Together  they  attended  lectures, 
concerts,  and  galleries  of  art.  As  they  stood  before  the  works 
of  a  master's  hand,  whether  in  the  sculptured  marble  or  the 
painted  canvas,  and  Emily  listened  while  Gertrude,  with  glow 
ing  eyes  and  a  face  radiant  with  enthusiasm,  described  with 
minuteness  and  accuracy  the  subject  of  the  pieces,  the  manner 
in  which  the  artist  had  expressed  in  his  work  the  original  con 
ception  of  his  mind,  —  the  attitudes  of  figures,  the  expression 
of  faces,  the  coloring  of  landscapes,  and  the  effect  produced 
upon  her  mind  and  heart  by  the  thoughts  which  the  work  con- 


294  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

veyed,  —  such  was  the  eloquence  of  the  one,  and  the  sympa< 
thizing  attention  of  the  other,  that,  as  they  stood  there  in  strik 
ing  contrast,  forgetful  of  all  around,  they  were  themselves  a 
study,  if  not  for  the  artist,  for  the  observer  of  human  nature, 
as  manifested  in  novel  forms  and  free  from  affectation  and 
worldliness. 

Then,  too,  as  in  their  daily  walks,  or  gazing  upon  the  glories 
of  a  brilliant  winter's  night,  Gertrude,  enraptured  at  the  work 
of  the  great  Master  of  the  universe,  poured  out  without  reserve 
her  soul's  deep  and  earnest  admiration,  dilated  upon  the  gor- 
geousness  of  a  clear  sunset,  or  in  the  sweet  hour  of  twilight  sat 
watching  the  coming  on  of  beautiful  night,  and  lighting  of 
Heaven's  lamps,  then  would  Emily,  from  the  secret  fountains 
of  her  largely  illumined  nature,  speak  out  such  truths  of  the 
inner  life  as  made  it  seem  that  she  alone  were  blessed  with  the 
true  light,  and  all  the  seeing  world  sat  in  comparative  darkness. 

It  was  a  blissful  and  an  improving  winter  which  they  thus 
passed  together.  They  lived  not  for  themselves  alone;  the 
poor  blessed  them,  the  sorrowful  came  to  them  for  sympathy, 
and  the  affection  which  they  both  inspired  in  the  family  circle 
was  boundless.  Gertrude  often  recurred  to  it,  in  her  after  life, 
as  the  time  when  she  and  Emily  lived  in  a  beautiful  world  of 
their  own.  Spring  came,  and  passed,  and  still  they  lingered 
there,  loath  to  leave  a  place  where  they  had  been  so  happy ;  and 
nothing  at  last  drove  them  from  the  city  but  a  sudden  failure 
in  Emily's  health,  and.  Dr.  Jeremy's  peremptory  command  that 
they  should  at  once  seek  the  country  air,  as  the  best  restorative. 

Added  to  her  anxiety  about  Emily,  Gertrude  began  to  feel 
much  troubled  at  Willie  Sullivan's  long  silence;  no  word  from 
him  for  two  or  three  months.  Willie  could  not  have  forgotten 
or  meant  to  neglect  her.  That  was  impossible.  But  why  this 
strange  suspension  to  their  correspondence?  She  tried,  how 
ever,  not  to  feel  disturbed  about  it,  and  gave  all  her  care  to 
Emily,  who  now  began  indeed  to  require  it. 

They  went  to  the  seaside  for  a  few  weeks ;  but  the  clear  and 
bracing  atmosphere  brought  no  strength  to  the  blind  girl's 
feeble  frame.  She  was  obliged  to  give  up  her  daily  walks;  a 
continued  weariness  robbed  her  step  of  its  elasticity,  and  her 
usually  equal  spirits  were  subject  to  an  unwonted  depression, 
while  her  nervous  temperament  became  so  susceptible  that  the 
utmost  care  was  requisite  to  preserve  her  from  all  excitement. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  295 

The  good  doctor  came  frequently  to  see  his  favorite  patient, 
but  finding  on  every  visit  that  she  seemed  worse  instead  of 
better,  he  at  last  ordered  her  back  to  the  city,  declaring  that 
Mrs.  Jerry's  front  chamber  was  as  cool  and  comfortable  as 
the  little  stived-up  apartments  of  the  crowded  boarding-house 
at  Nahant,  and  there  he  should  insist  upon  both  her  and  Ger 
trude's  taking  up  their  quarters,  at  least  for  a  week  or  two;  at 
the  end  of  which  time,  if  Emily  had  not  found  her  health,  he 
hoped  to  have  leisure  to  start  off  with  them  in  search  of  it. 

Emily  thought  she  was  doing  very  well  where  she  was;  was 
afraid  she  should  be  troublesome  to  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"Don't  talk  about  trouble,  Emily.  You  ought  to  know 
Mrs.  Jerry  and  me  better,  by  this  time.  Come  up  to-morrow ; 
I  '11  meet  you  at  the  cars !  Good-by !  "  and  he  took  his  hat  and 
was  off. 

Gertrude  followed  him.  "I  see,  doctor,  you  think  Emily 
is  not  so  well." 

"No;  how  should  she  be?  What  with  the  sea  roaring  on 
one  side,  and  Mrs.  Fellows's  babies  on  the  other,  it 's  enough  to 
wear  away  her  strength.  I  won't  have  it  so!  This  isn't  the 
place  for  her,  and  do  you  bring  her  up  to  my  house  to-morrow." 

"The  babies  don't  usually  cry  as  much  as  they  have  to-day," 
said  Gertrude,  smiling;  "and  as  to  the  ocean,  Emily  loves 
dearly  to  hear  the  waves  rolling  in.  She  sits  and  listens  to 
them  by  the  hour  together." 

"Knew  she  did!  "  said  the  doctor.  "Sha'n't  do  it;  bad  for 
her ;  it  makes  her  sad,  without  her  knowing  why.  Bring  her 
up  to  Boston,  as  I  tell  you." 

It  was  full  three  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  his  visitors  before 
the  popular  physician  could  steal  away  from  his  patients  to 
enjoy  a  few  weeks'  recreation  in  travelling.  For  his  own  sake 
he  would  hardly  have  thought  of  attempting  so  unusual  a  thing 
as  a  journey;  and  his  wife,  too,  loved  home  so  much  better 
than  any  other  place,  that  she  was  loath  to  start  for  parts  un 
known;  but  both  were  willing,  and  even  anxious,  to  sacrifice 
their  long  indulged  habits  for  what  they  considered  the  advan 
tage  of  their  young  friends. 

Emily  was  decidedly  better;  so  much  so  as  to  view  with 
pleasure  the  prospect  of  visiting  West  Point,  Catskill,  and  Sara 
toga,  even  on  her  own  account;  and  when  she  reflected  upon 
the  probable  enjoyment  the  trip  would  afford  Gertrude,  she  felt 


296  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

herself  endowed  with  new  strength  for  the  undertaking.  Ger 
trude  needed  change  of  scene  and  diversion  of  mind  almost  as 
much  as  Emily.  The  excessive  heat  of  the  last  few  weeks, 
ind  her  constant  attendance  in  the  invalid's  room,  had  paled 
the  roses  in  her  cheeks,  while  care  and  anxiety  had  weighed 
upon  her  mind.  The  late  improvement  in  Emily,  however, 
and  the  alacrity  with  which  she  entered  into  the  doctor's  plans, 
relieved  Gertrude  of  her  fears ;  and  as  she  moved  actively  about 
to  complete  the  few  preparations  which  were  needed  in  her  own 
and  her  friend's  wardrobe,  her  step  was  as  light,  and  her  voice 
as  gladsome,  as  her  fingers  were  busy  and  skilful. 

New  York  was  their  first  destination;  but  the  heat  and  dust 
of  the  city  were  almost  insufferable,  and  during  the  one  day 
which  they  passed  there  Dr.  Jeremy  was  the  only  member  of 
the  party  who  ventured  out  of  the  hotel,  except  on  occasion  of 
a  short  expedition  which  Mrs.  Jeremy  and  Gertrude  made  in 
search  of  dress  caps,  the  former  lady's  stock  being  still  limited 
to  the  old  yellow  and  the  lilac  and  pink,  neither  of  which,  she 
feared,  would  be  just  the  thing  for  Saratoga. 

The  doctor,  however,  seemed  quite  insensible  to  the  state 
of  the  weather,  so  much  was  he  occupied  with  visits  to  some  of 
his  ^Esculapian  brethren,  several  of  whom  were  college  class 
mates  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years.  He  passed  the  whole 
day  in  the  revival  of  old  acquaintances  and  associations;  and 
a  number  of  these  newly  found  but  warm-hearted  friends  hav 
ing  presented  themselves  at  the  hotel  in  the  evening,  to  be  in 
troduced  to  Mrs.  Jeremy  and  her  travelling  companions,  their 
parlor  was  enlivened  until  a  late  hour  by  the  happy  and  cheer 
ful  conversation  of  a  group  of  elderly  men,  who,  as  they  re 
called  the  past  and  dwelt  upon  the  scenes  and  incidents  of  their 
youthful  days,  seemed  to  renew  their  boyish  spirits,  so  joyous 
was  the  laughter  and  excitement  with  which  each  anecdote  of 
former  times  was  received  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  spokes 
man,  —  an  office  which  each  filled  by  turns.  Dr.  Jeremy  had 
been  a  great  favorite  among  his  circle,  and  almost  every  narrative 
of  college  days  (save  those  which  he  himself  detailed)  bore  refer 
ence  to  some  exploit  in  which  he  had  borne  a  spirited  and  hon 
orable  part;  and  the  three  female  auditors,  especially  Gertrude, 
who  was  enthusiastic  in  her  own  appreciation  of  the  doctor's 
merits,  listened  triumphantly  to  this  corroborative  testimony  of 
his  worth. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  297 

The  conversation,  however,  was  not  of  a  character  to  exclude 
the  ladies  from  participating  in  as  well  as  enjoying  it;  and 
Gertrude,  who  always  got  on  famously  with  elderly  men,  and 
whom  the  doctor  loved  dearly  to  draw  out,  contributed  not  a 
little  to  the  mirth  and  good  humor  of  the  company  by  her  play 
ful  and  amusing  sallies,  and  the  quickness  of  repartee  with 
which  she  responded  to  the  adroit,  puzzling,  and  sometimes 
ironical  questions  and  jokes  of  an  old  bachelor  physician,  who 
from  the  first  took  a  wonderful  fancy  to  her. 

Emily  listened  with  delighted  interest  to  a  conversation 
which  had  for  her  such  varied  charms,  and  shared  with  Ger 
trude  the  admiration  of  the  doctor's  friends,  who  were  all  ex 
cited  to  the  warmest  sympathy  for  her  misfortune;  while  Mrs. 
Jeremy,  proud,  smiling,  and  happy,  looked  so  complacent  as 
she  sat  ensconced  in  an  arm-chair,  listening  to  the  encomiums 
pronounced  on  her  husband's  boyhood,  that  Gertrude  declared, 
as  they  separated  for  the  night,  that  she  had  almost  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  old  yellow  was  becoming  to  her,  and  her  new 
caps  altogether  superfluous. 

Upon  hearing  that  Dr.  Jeremy's  party  were  going  up  the 
Hudson  the  next  morning,  Dr.  Gryseworth,  of  Philadelphia, 
who  had  many  years  before  been  a  student  of  our  good  doctor's, 
expressed  his  satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  meeting  them  on 
board  the  boat,  and  introducing  to  Gertrude  his  two  daugh 
ters,  whom  he  was  about  to  accompany  to  Saratoga  to  meet 
tneir  grandmother,  already  established  at  Congress  Hall  for  the 
summer. 

It  was  midnight  before  Gertrude  could  compose  her  mind, 
and  so  far  quiet  her  imagination  (which,  always  lively,  was 
now  keenly  excited  by  the  next  day's  promise  of  pleasure)  as 
to  think  of  the  necessity  of  fortifying  herself  by  sleep;  and 
Emily  was  finally  obliged  to  check  her  gayety  and  loquacity  by 
positively  refusing  to  join  in  another  laugh,  or  listen  to  another 
word  that  night.  Thus  condemned  to  silence,  she  sunk  at  once 
to  slumber,  unconscious  that  Emily,  usually  an  excellent  sleeper, 
had  in  this  instance  acted  solely  for  her  benefit,  being  herself 
so  strangely  wakeful  that  morning  found  her  unrefreshed,  and 
uncertain  whether  she  had  once  during  the  night  been  lulled 
into  a  perfect  state  of  repose. 

Gertrude,  who  slept  soundly  until  wakened  by  Miss  Graham, 
started  up  in  astonishment  on  seeing  her  dressed  and  standing 


298  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

by  the  bedside.  —  a  most  unusual  circumstance,  and  one  which 
reversed  the  customary  order  of  things,  as  Gertrude's  morning 
kiss  was  wont  to  be  Emily's  first  intimation  of  daylight. 

"Six  o'clock,  Gerty,  and  the  boat  starts  at  seven!  The 
doctor  has  already  been  knocking  at  our  door." 

"  How  soundly  I  have  slept ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude.  "  I 
wonder  if  it 's  a  pleasant  day.'7 

"Beautiful,"  replied  Emily,  "but  very  warm.  The  sun 
was  shining  in  so  brightly,  that  I  had  to  close  the  blinds  on 
account  of  the  heat." 

Gertrude  made  haste  to  repair  for  lost  time,  but  was  not 
quite  dressed  when  they  were  summoned  to  the  early  breakfast 
prepared  for  travellers.  She  had,  also,  her  own  and  Emily's 
trunks  to  lock,  and  therefore  insisted  upon  the  others  preceding 
her  to  the  breakfast-hall,  where  she  promised  to  join  them  in 
a  few  moments. 

The  company  assembled  at  this  early  hour  was  small,  con 
sisting  only  of  two  parties  beside  Dr.  Jeremy's,  and  a  few 
gentlemen,  most  of  them  business  men,  who,  having  partaken 
of  their  food  in  a  business-like  manner,  started  off  in  haste  for 
their  different  destinations.  Of  those  who  still  lingered  at  the 
table  when  Gerty  made  her  appearance,  there  was  only  one 
whom  she  particularly  observed,  during  the  few  moments  al 
lowed  her  by  Dr.  Jeremy  for  the  enjoyment  of  her  breakfast. 

This  was  a  gentleman  who  sat  at  some  distance  from  her,  idly 
balancing  his  tea-spoon  on  the  edge  of  his  cup.  He  had  con 
cluded  his  own  repast,  but  seemed  quite  at  his  leisure,  and  pre 
vious  to  Gertrude's  entrance  had  won  Mrs.  Jeremy's  animad 
versions  by  a  slight  propensity  he  had  manifested  to  make  a 
more  critical  survey  of  her  party  than  she  found  wholly  agree 
able.  "Do,  pray,"  said  she  to  the  doctor,  "send  the  waiter  to 
ask  that  man  to  take  something  himself:  I  can't  bear  to  have 
anybody  looking  at  me  so  when  I  'm  eating ! " 

"He  isn't  looking  at  you,  wife;  it's  Emily  that  has  taken 
his  fancy.  Emily,  my  dear,  there  's  a  gentleman  over  oppo 
site  who  admires  you  exceedingly." 

"  Is  there  1 "  said  Emily  smiling.  "  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  him.  May  I  venture  to  return  the  compliment  1 " 

"Yes.  He  's  a  fine-looking  fellow,  though  wife,  here,  doesn't 
seem  to  like  him  very  well." 

At  this  moment  Gertrude  joined  them,  and  as  she  made  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  299 

morning  salutation  to  the  doctor  and  his  wife,  and  gayly  apolo 
gized  to  the  former  for  her  tardiness,  the  fine  color  which  man 
tled  her  countenance,  and  the  deep  brilliancy  of  her  large  dark 
eyes,  drew  glances  of  affectionate  admiration  from  the  kind  old 
couple,  and  were,  perhaps,  the  cause  of  the  stranger's  attention 
being  at  once  transferred  from  the  lovely  and  interesting  face  of 
Emily  to  the  more  youthful,  beaming,  and  eloquent  features  of 
Gertrude. 

She  had  hardly  taken  her  seat  before  she  became  aware  of  the 
notice  she  was  attracting.  It  embarrassed  her,  and  she  was  glad 
when,  after  a  moment  or  two,  the  gentleman  hastily  dropped  his 
tea-spoon,  rose  and  left  the  room.  As  he  passed  out,  she  had 
an  opportunity  of  observing  him,  which  she  had  not  ventured  to 
do  while  he  sat  opposite  to  her. 

He  was  a  man  considerably  above  the  middle  height,  slender, 
but  finely  formed,  and  of  a  graceful  and  dignified  bearing.  His 
features  were  rather  sharp,  but  expressive,  and  even  handsome ; 
his  eyes,  dark,  keen,  and  piercing,  had  a  most  penetrating  look, 
while  his  firmly  compressed  lips  spoke  of  resolution  and  strength 
of  will. 

But  the  chief  peculiarity  of  his  appearance  was  his  hair,  which 
was  deeply  tinged  with  gray,  and  in  the  vicinity  of  his  temples 
almost  snowy  white.  This  was  so  strikingly  in  contrast  with 
the  youthful  fire  of  his  eye,  and  the  easy  lightness  of  his  step, 
that,  instead  of  seeming  the  effect  of  age,  and  giving  him  a  title 
to  veneration,  it  rather  enhanced  the  contradictory  claims  of  his 
otherwise  apparent  youth  and  vigor. 

"What  a  queer-looking  man!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jeremy,  when 
he  had  passed  out. 

"An  elegant-looking  man,  isn't  he?"  said  Gertrude. 

"Elegant?  "  rejoined  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "What!  with  that  gray 
head?" 

"I  think  it's  beautiful,"  said  Gertrude;  "but  I  wish  he 
didn't  look  so  melancholy;  it  makes  me  quite  sad  to  see  him." 

"How  old  should  you  think  he  was? "  asked  Dr.  Jeremy. 

"About  fifty,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"About  thirty,"  said  Gertrude,  and  both  in  the  same  breath. 

"A  wide  difference,"  remarked  Emily.  "Doctor,  you  must 
decide  the  point." 

"Impossible!  I  wouldn't  venture  to  tell  that  man's  age 
within  ten  years,  at  least.  Wife  has  got  him  old  enough,  cer- 


300  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

tainly :  I  'm  not  sure  but  I  should  set  him  as  low  even  as  Ger 
trude's  mark.  Age  never  turned  his  hair  gray  —  that  is  cer 
tain." 

Intimation  was  now  given  that  passengers  for  the  boat  must 
be  on  the  alert;  and  all  speculation  upon  the  probable  age  of 
the  stranger  (a  fruitless  kind  of  speculation,  often  indulged  in^ 
and  sometimes  a  source  of  vain  and  endless  discussion)  was  sud 
denly  and  peremptorily  suspended. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  301 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

His  mien  is  lofty,  but  his  gaze 
Too  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays t 
His  full,  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  light, 
And  oft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wear,  — 
A  glance  of  hurried  wildness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomable  thought. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

To  most  of  our  travelling  public  a  little  trip  from  Boston  into 
New  York  State  seems  an  every-day  affair,  scarce  worth  calling 
a  journey;  but  to  Dr.  Jeremy  it  was  a  momentous  event,  call 
ing  the  good  physician  out  of  a  routine  of  daily  professional 
visits,  which,  during  a  period  of  twenty  years,  had  not  been 
interrupted  by  a  week's  absence  from  home,  and  plunging  him 
at  once  into  that  whirl  of  hurry,  tumult,  and  excitement,  which 
exists  on  all  our  great  routes,  especially  in  the  summer  season, 
the  time  when  the  American  populace  takes  its  yearly  pleasure 
excursion. 

The  doctor  was  by  nature  and  habit  a  social  being;  never 
shrinking  from  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  but  rather  seek 
ing  and  enjoying  their  companionship  on  all  occasions.  He 
knew  how  to  adapt  himself  to  the  taste  of  young  and  old,  rich 
and  poor,  and  was  well  acquainted  with  city  life  in  all  its  forms. 
In  the  art  of  travelling,  however,  —  an  art  to  be  acquired  by 
practice  only,  —  he  was  totally  unversed.  He  had  yet  to  learn 
the  adroit  use  of  those  many  springs,  which,  touched  at  the 
right  moment,  and  by  a  skilful  hand,  soften  the  obdurate  hearts 
of  landlords,  win  the  devoted  attendance  of  waiters,  inspire  rail 
road  conductors  and  steamboat  officials  with  a  spirit  of  accom 
modation,  and  convert  the  clamorous,  noisy  hackmen  into  quiet, 
obedient,  and  humble  servants  at  command.  In  Dr.  Jeremy's 
travelling  days  the  stage-coach  was  the  chief  vehicle  of  conven 
ience  and  speed;  the  driver  was  a  civil  fellow,  each  passenger 
a  person  of  consequence,  and  each  passenger's  baggage  a  thing 


302  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

not  to  be  despised.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  people  moved  in 
masses;  a  single  individual  was  a  man  of  no  influence,  a  mere 
unit  in  the  great  whole,  and  his  much  valued  luggage  that  which 
seemed  in  his  eyes  a  mark  for  the  heaviest  knocks  and  bruises. 
Dr.  Jeremy  was  appalled  at  this  new  state  of  things,  and  quite 
unable  to  reconcile  to  it  either  his  taste  or  temper.  To  him  the 
modern  landlord  resembled  the  keeper  of  an  intelligence  office, 
who  condescendingly  glances  at  his  books  to  see  if  he  can  fur 
nish  the  humble  suppliant  with  a  situation,  and  often  turns  him 
away  mortified  and  disappointed ;  the  waiters,  whom  the  honest 
and  unsophisticated  doctor  scorned  to  bribe,  were  an  impudent, 
lazy  set  of  varlets;  conductors  and  steamboat  masters  lordly 
tyrants ;  and  the  hackmen,  a  swarm  of  hungry,  buzzing,  stinging 
wasps,  let  loose  on  wharves  and  in  depots  for  the  torment  of 
their  victims. 

Thus  were  these  important  members  of  society  stigmatized, 
and  loudly  were  they  railed  at  by  our  traveller,  who  invariably, 
at  the  commencement  and  close  of  every  trip,  got  wrought  up 
to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement  at  the  wrongs  and  indignities  to 
which  he  was  subjected.  It  was  astonishing,  however,  to  see 
how  quickly  he  cooled  down,  and  grew  comfortable  and  con 
tented,  when  he  was  once  established  in  car  or  steamboat,  or 
had  succeeded  in  obtaining  suitable  quarters  at  a  hotel.  He 
would  then  immediately  subside  into  the  obliging,  friendly,  and 
sociable  man  of  the  world;  would  make  acquaintance  with 
everybody  about  him,  and  talk  and  behave  with  such  careless 
unconcern,  that  one  would  have  supposed  he  considered  himself 
fixed  for  life,  and  was  moreover  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  fate 
that  destiny  had  assigned  to  him. 

Thankful,  therefore,  were  the  ladies  of  his  party  when  they 
were  safe  on  board  the  steamboat,  a  circumstance  upon  which 
they  were  still  congratulating  themselves  and  each  other,  while 
they  piled  up  their  heavy  shawls  and  other  extra  garments  in 
an  out  of  the  way  corner  of  the  cabin,  when  the  doctor's  voice 
was  again  heard  calling  to  them  from  the  other  end  of  the  long 
saloon :  "  Come,  come,  wife,  —  Gertrude,  —  Emily !  what  are 
you  staying  down  in  this  stived-up  place  for?  you  '11  lose  the 
best  part  of  the  view ; "  and,  coming  towards  them,  he  took 
Gertrude's  arm,  and  would  have  hurried  her  away,  leaving  Mrs. 
Jeremy  and  Emily  to  follow  when  they  were  ready ;  but  Ger 
trude  would  not  trust  Emily  to  ascend  the  cabin  stairs  under 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  303 

any  guardianship  but  her  own,  and  Mrs.  Jeremy  immediately 
engaged  the  doctor  in  an  animated  discussion  as  to  the  advisa 
bility  of  his  adopting  a  straw  hat,  which  the  thoughtful  wife 
had  brought  from  home  in  her  hand,  and  which  she  was  eager 
to  see  enjoyed.  By  the  time  the  question  was  settled,  and 
Emily,  at  Gertrude's  persuasion,  had  been  induced  to  exchange 
her  thin  mantilla  for  a  light  travelling  cloak,  which  the  latter 
T?as  sure  she  would  require,  as  there  was  a  fresh  breeze  stirring 
on  the  river,  the  boat  had  proceeded  some  distance;  and  when 
our  party  finally  gained  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  looked  about 
thorn  for  seats  on  deck,  not  a  single  vacant  bench  or  accommo 
dation  of  any  sort  was  to  be  seen.  There  was  an  unusually  large 
number  of  passengers,  nearly  all  of  whom  were  collected  at  the 
stern  of  the  boat.  Dr.  Jeremy  was  obliged  to  leave  his  ladies, 
and  go  off  in  search  of  chairs. 

"Don't  let  us  stay  here!"  whispered  Mrs.  Jeremy  to  Ger 
trude  and  Emily.  "Let's  go  right  back,  before  the  doctor 
comes!  There  are  beautiful  great  rocking-chairs  down  in  the 
cabin,  without  a  soul  to  sit  in  them,  and  I  'm  sure  we  ain't 
wanted  here  to  make  up  a  company.  I  hate  to  stand  with  all 
these  people  staring  at  us,  and  crowing  to  think  they  've  got 
such  nice  places;  don't  you,  Emily?" 

Mrs.  Jeremy  was  one  of  the  people  who  were  constantly  for 
getting  that  Emily  could  not  see. 

But  Gertrude  was  not  —  she  never  forgot  it;  and  as  she 
stood  with  her  arm  lightly  passed  around  her  friend's  waist,  to 
prevent  the  motion  of  the  boat  from  throwing  her  off  her  bal 
ance,  it  was  no  wonder  they  attracted  attention;  the  one  so 
bright,  erect,  and  strong  with  youth  and  health,  that  she  seemed 
a  fit  protector  for  the  other,  who,  in  her  sweet  and  gentle  help 
lessness,  leaned  upon  her  so  trustingly. 

"I  think,  when  we  get  seated  in  the  shade,  we  shall  find  it 
cooler  here  than  it  is  below,"  said  Emily,  in  reply  to  Mrs. 
Jeremy's  urgent  proposition  that  they  should  make  their  escape 
in  the  doctor's  absence.  "  You  always  prefer  the  coolest  place, 
I  believe." 

"So  I  do;  but  I  noticed  there  was  a  good  draught  of  air  in 
the  ladies'  saloon,  and  —  "  Here  the  good  woman's  argument 
was  interrupted  by  the  cordial  salutation  of  Dr.  Gryseworth, 
who,  previously  seated  with  his  back  towards  them,  had  turned 
at  the  sound  of  Emily's  flute-like  voice,  which,  once  heard,  in- 


304  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

variably  left  an  impression  upon  the  memory.  When  he  had 
finished  shaking  hands,  he  insisted  upon  giving  up  his  seat  to 
Mrs.  Jeremy;  and,  at  the  same  instant,  another  gentleman, 
who,  owing  to  the  throng  of  passengers,  had  hitherto  been  un 
noticed  by  our  party,  rose,  and  bowing  politely,  placed  his  own 
chair  for  the  accommodation  of  Emily,  and  then  walked  quickly 
away.  It  was  the  stranger  whom  they  had  seen  at  breakfast. 
Gertrude  recognized  his  keen,  dark  eye,  even  before  she  per 
ceived  his  singular  hair;  and,  as  she  thanked  him,  and  placed 
Emily  in  the  offered  seat,  she  felt  herself  color  under  his  earnest 
glance.  But  Dr.  Gryseworth  immediately  claimed  her  attention 
for  the  introduction  to  his  daughters,  and  all  thought  of  the 
retreating  stranger  was  banished  for  the  present. 

The  Miss  Gryseworths  %vere  intelligent  looking  girls;  the 
eldest,  lately  returned  from  Europe,  where  she  had  been  travel 
ling  with  her  father,  was  considered  a  very  elegant  and  superior 
person,  and  Gertrude  was  charmed  with  the  lady-like  cordiality 
with  which  they  both  made  her  acquaintance,  and  still  more 
with  the  amiable  and  sympathizing  attentions  which  they  paid 
to  Emily. 

By  the  time  that  Dr.  Jeremy  returned  with  the  solitary  chair 
which  he  had  been  able  to  obtain,  he  found  Gertrude  and  Dr. 
Gryseworth  comfortably  accommodated,  through  the  skilful 
agency  of  the  latter,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  sink  at  once  into 
his  seat  and  subside  into  that  state  of  easy  unconcern  which 
admirably  became  his  pleasant,  genial  temperament. 

Long  before  the  boat  reached  West  Point,  where  the  Jeremys 
were  to  go  on  shore,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  an  excellent 
understanding  subsisted  between  Gertrude  and  the  Miss  Gryse 
worths,  and  that  time  only  was  wanting  to  ripen  their  acquaint 
ance  into  friendship. 

Gertrude  was  not  one  of  those  young  persons  who  consider 
every  girl  of  their  own  age  entitled  to  their  immediate  intimacy 
and  confidence.  She  had  her  decided  preferences,  and  though 
invariably  civil  and  obliging,  was  rarely  disposed  to  admit  new 
members  into  her  sacred  circle  of  friends.  She  was  quick,  how 
ever,  to  recognize  a  congenial  spirit;  and  such  an  one,  once 
found,  was  claimed  by  her  enthusiastic  nature,  and  engrafted 
into  her  affections  as  something  of  kindred  birth.  Nor  was  the 
readily  adopted  tie  easily  loosened  or  broken.  Whom  Gertrude 
once  loved,  she  loved  long  and  well;  faithful  was  she  in  her 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  305 

efforts  to  serve,  and  prompt  in  her  sympathy  to  feel  for  those 
whose  interest  and  happiness  friendship  made  dear  to  her  as  her 
own. 

Perhaps  Ellen  Gryseworth  divined  this  trait  of  her  character, 
and  appreciated  the  value  of  so  steady  and  truthful  a  regard ; 
for  she  certainly  tried  hard  to  win  it ;  and  her  father,  who  had 
heard  Gertrude's  history  from  Dr.  Jeremy,  smiled  approvingly, 
as  he  witnessed  the  pains  which  his  high  bred  and  somewhat 
aristocratic  daughter  was  taking  to  render  herself  agreeable  to 
one  whose  social  position  had  in  it  nothing  to  excite  her  ambi 
tion,  and  whose  person,  mind,  and  manners,  constituted  her  sole 
recommendation. 

They  had  been  for  about  an  hour  engaged  in  the  enjoyment 
of  each  other's  society,  and  in  the  view  of  some  of  the  most 
charming  scenery  in  the  world,  when  Netta  Gryseworth  touched 
her  sister's  arm,  and  glancing  towards  another  part  of  the  boat, 
said,  in  an  undertone,  "Ellen,  do  invite  Mr.  Phillips  to  come 
back  and  be  introduced  to  Miss  Flint !  —  see  how  lonesome  the 
poor  man  looks." 

Gertrude  followed  the  direction  of  Netta's  eye,  and  saw  the 
stranger  of  the  morning  at  some  distance  from  them,  slowly 
pacing  up  and  down,  with  a  serious  and  abstracted  air. 

"He  has  not  been  near  us  for  an  hour,"  said  Netta.  "I  am 
afraid  he  has  got  the  blues." 

"I  hope  we  have  not  frightened  your  friend  away,"  said 
Gertrude. 

"0,  no,  indeed!"  replied  Ellen.  "Although  Mr.  Phillips 
is  but  a  recent  acquaintance,  we  have  found  him  so  independ 
ent,  and  sometimes  so  whimsical,  that  I  am  never  astonished 
at  his  proceedings,  or  mortified  at  being  suddenly  forsaken  by 
him.  There  are  some  people,  you  know,  for  whom  it  is  always 
sufficient  excuse  to  say,  It  is  their  way.  I  wish  he  would 
condescend  to  join  us  again,  however;  I  should  like  to  intro 
duce  him  to  you,  Miss  Flint." 

"You  wouldn't  like  him,"  said  Netta. 

"Now,  that  is  not  fair,  Netta!"  exclaimed  her  sister,  "to 
try  and  prejudice  Miss  Flint  against  my  friend.  You  mustn't 
let  her  influence  you,"  added  she,  addressing  Gertrude.  "She 
has  n't  known  him  half  as  long  as  I  have;  and  I  do  not  dislike 
him,  by  any  means.  My  little,  straightforward  sister  never 
likes  odd  people,  and  I  must  confess  that  Mr.  Phillips  is  some- 


306  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

what  eccentric;  but  he  interests  me  all  the  more  on  that  ao> 
count,  and  I  feel  positive  he  and  you  would  have  many  ideal 
and  sentiments  in  common." 

"How  can  you  say  so,  Ellen?  "  said  Ketta.  "I  think  they 
are  totally  different." 

"You  must  consider  Netta's  remark  very  complimentary, 
Miss  Flint,"  said  Ellen,  good-naturedly;  "it  would  not  be  quite 
so  much  so,  if  it  had  come  from  me." 

"  But  you  wished  me  to  become  acquainted  with  your  od 
dity,"  remarked  Gertrude,  addressing  herself  to  Netta.  "I  sus 
pect  you  act  on  the  principle  that  one's  misfortunes  should  be 
shared  by  one's  friends." 

Netta  laughed.  "Not  exactly,"  said  she;  "it  was  compas 
sion/or  him  that  moved  me.  I  can't  help  pitying  him  when 
he  looks  so  homesick,  and  I  thought  your  society  would  brighten 
him  up  and  do  him  good." 

"Ah,  Netta!  Netta!"  cried  her  sister;  "he  has  excited  your 
sympathy,  I  see.  A  few  days  more,  and  I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  you  went  beyond  me  in  your  admiration  of  him.  If 
so,  take  care,  you  transparent  creature,  not  to  betray  your  in 
consistency."  Then,  turning  to  Gertrude,  she  said,  "Netta 
met  Mr.  Phillips  yesterday  for  the  first  time,  and  has  not 
seemed  very  favorably  impressed.  Father  and  I  were  passen 
gers  in  the  same  steamer  in  which  he  came  from  Liverpool,  a 
few  weeks  ago.  He  had  an  ill  turn  in  the  early  part  of  the 
voyage,  and  it  was  in  a  professional  way  that  father  first  made 
his  acquaintance.  I  was  surprised  at  seeing  him  on  board  the 
boat  to-day,  for  he  mentioned  no  such  intention  yesterday." 

Gertrude  suspected  that  the  agreeable  young  lady  might  her 
self  be  the  cause  of  his  journey;  but  she  did  not  say  so  —  her 
native  delicacy  and  the  slight  knowledge  she  had  of  the  parties 
forbade  such  an  allusion;  and  the  conversation  soon  taking 
another  turn,  Mr.  Phillips  was  not  again  adverted  to,  though 
Gertrude  observed,  just  before  the  boat  stopped  at  West  Point, 
that  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Dr.  Gryseworth,  having  left  their  party, 
had  joined  him,  and  that  the  trio  were  engaged  in  a  colloquy 
which  seemed  to  possess  equal  interest  to  them  all. 

At  West  Point  Gertrude  parted  from  her  new  friends,  who 
expressed  an  earnest  hope  that  they  should  again  meet  in  Sara 
toga  ;  and  before  the  bustle  of  going  on  shore  had  subsided,  and 
she  had  found  on  the  narrow  pier  a  safe  place  of  refuge  foi 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  307 

Emily  and  herself,  the  boat  was  far  up  the  river,  and  the  Miss 
Gryseworths  quite  undistinguishable  among  the  crowd  that 
swarmed  the  deck. 

Our  travellers  passed  one  night  only  at  West  Point.  The 
weather  continued  extremely  hot,  and  Dr.  Jeremy,  perceiving 
that  Emily  drooped  under  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  was  de 
sirous  to  reach  the  summit  of  Catskill  Mountain  before  the  Sab 
bath,  which  was  now  near  at  hand. 

One  solitary  moonlight  evening,  however,  sufficed  to  give 
Gertrude  some  idea  of  the  beauties  of  the  place.  She  had  no 
opportunity  to  observe  it  in  detail ;  she  saw  it  only  as  a  whole ; 
but  thus  presented  to  her  vision  in  all  the  dreamy  loveliness  of 
a  summer's  night,  it  left  on  her  fresh  and  impressive  mind  a 
vague  sentiment  of  wonder  and  delight  at  the  surpassing  sweet 
ness  of  what  seemed  rather  a  glimpse  of  Paradise  than  an  actual 
show  of  earth,  so  harmonious  was  the  scene,  so  calm,  so  still, 
so  peaceful.  "Emily  darling,"  said  she  as  they  stood  together 
in  a  rustic  arbor,  commanding  the  most  striking  prospect  both 
of  the  river  and  the  shore,  "  it  looks  like  you ;  you  ought  to  live 
here,  and  be  the  priestess  of  such  a  temple ! "  and  locking  her 
hand  in  that  of  Emily,  she  poured  into  her  attentive  ear  the 
holy  and  elevated  sentiments  to  which  the  time  and  the  place 
gave  birth.  To  pour  out  her  thoughts  to  Emily  was  like  whis 
pering  to  her  own  heart,  and  the  response  to  those  thoughts 
was  as  sure  and  certain. 

So  passed  the  evening  away,  and  an  early  hour  in  the  morn 
ing  found  them  again  steaming  up  the  river.  Their  first  day's 
experience  having  convinced  them  of  the  danger  of  delay,  they 
lost  no  time  in  securing  places  on  deck,  for  the  boat  was  as 
crowded  as  on  the  previous  morning;  but  the  shores  of  West 
Point  were  hardly  passed  from  their  view  before  Gertrude's 
watchful  eye  detected  in  Emily's  countenance  the  well-known 
signs  of  weariness  and  debility.  Sacrificing,  without  hesitation, 
the  intense  pleasure  she  was  herself  deriving  from  the  beautiful 
scenes  through  which  the  boat  was  at  the  moment  passing,  she 
at  once  proposed  that  they  should  seek  the  cabin,  where  Miss 
Graham  might  rest  in  greater  stillness  and  comfort. 

Emily,  however,  would  not  listen  to  the  proposal;  would 
not  think  of  depriving  Gertrude  of  the  rare  pleasure  she  knew 
she  must  be  experiencing. 

"The  prospect  is  all  lost  upon  me  now,  Emily,"  said  Ger* 


308  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

trude.  "I  see  only  your  tired  face.  Do  go  and  lie  down,  if 
it  be  only  to  please  me ;  you  hardly  slept  at  all  last  night. " 

"Are  you  talking  of  going  below?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
"I,  for  one,  shall  be  thankful  to;  it's  as  comfortable  again, 
and  we  can  see  all  we  want  to  from  the  cabin  windows,  can't 
we,  Emily?" 

"  Should  you  really  prefer  it  ?  "  inquired  Emily. 

"  Indeed,  I  should ! "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  with  such  emphasis 
that  her  sincerity  could  not  be  doubted. 

"Then,  if  you  will  promise  to  stay  here,  Gertrude,"  said 
Emily,  "I  will  go  with  Mrs.  Jeremy." 

Gertrude  assented  to  the  plan,  but  insisted  upon  first  accom 
panying  them,  to  find  a  vacant  berth  for  Emily,  and  see  her 
under  circumstances  which  would  promise  repose. 

Dr.  Jeremy  having,  in  the  mean  time,  gone  to  inquire  about 
dinner,  they  at  once  carried  their  plan  into  effect.  Emily  was 
really  too  weak  to  endure  the  noise  and  confusion  on  deck,  and 
after  she  had  lain  down  in  the  quiet  and  nearly  deserted  saloon, 
Gertrude  stood  smoothing  back  her  hair,  and  watching  her  pale 
countenance,  until  she  was  accused  of  violating  the  conditions 
of  their  agreement,  and  was  at  last  driven  away  by  the  lively 
and  good-natured  doctor's  lady,  who  declared  herself  perfectly 
well  able  to  take  care  of  Emily. 

"You  'd  better  make  haste  back,"  said  she,  "before  you  lose 
your  seat;  and  mind,  Gerty,  don't  let  the  doctor  come  near  us; 
he  '11  be  teasing  us  to  go  back  again,  and  we  've  no  idea  of  do 
ing  any  such  thing."  Saying  which,  Mrs.  Jeremy  untied  her 
bonnet  strings,  put  her  feet  up  in  the  opposite  chair,  clapped 
her  hands  at  Gertrude,  and  bade  her  be  gone. 

Gertrude  ran  off  laughing,  and  a  smile  was  still  on  her  face 
when  she  reached  the  staircase.  As  she  came  up  with  her  usual 
quick  and  light  step,  a  tall  figure  moved  aside  to  let  her  pass. 
It  was  Mr.  Phillips.  He  bowed,  and  Gertrude,  returning  the 
salutation,  passed  on  to  the  place  she  had  left,  wondering  how 
he  came  to  be  again  their  travelling  companion.  He  could  not 
have  been  on  board  previously  to  her  going  below  with  Emily; 
she  was  sure  she  should  have  seen  him,  she  should  have  known 
him  among  a  thousand.  He  must  have  taken  the  boat  at  New- 
burgh;  it  stopped  there  while  she  was  in  the  cabin. 

As  these  reflections  passed  through  her  mind,  she  resumed 
her  seat,  which  was  placed  at  the  very  stern  of  the  boat,  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  309 

with  her  back  to  most  of  the  company,  gazed  out  upon  the  river. 
She  had  sat  thus  for  about  five  minutes,  her  thoughts  divided 
between  the  scenery  and  the  interesting  countenance  of  the 
stranger,  when  a  shadow  passed  before  her,  and  looking  up,  pre 
pared  to  see  and  address  Dr.  Jeremy,  she  betrayed  a  little  confu 
sion  at  again  encountering  a  pair  of  eyes  whose  earnest,  magnetic 
gaze  had  the  power  to  disconcert  and  bewilder  her.  She  was 
turning  away,  somewhat  abruptly,  when  the  stranger  spoke. 

"  Good-morning,  young  lady !  our  paths  still  lie  in  the  same 
direction,  I  see.  Will  you  honor  me  by  making  use  of  my 
guide-book  ? " 

As  he  spoke,  he  offered  her  a  little  book  containing  a  map 
of  the  river,  and  the  shores  on  either  side.  Gertrude  took  it, 
and  thanked  him.  As  she  unfolded  the  map,  he  stationed  him 
self  a  few  steps  distant,  and  leaned  over  the  railing,  in  an  ap 
parently  absent  state  of  mind;  nor  did  he  speak  to  her  again 
for  some  minutes.  Then,  suddenly  turning  towards  her,  he 
said,  "You  like  all  this  very  much." 

"Very  much,"  said  Gertrude. 

"You  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  before  in  your 
life."  He  did  not  seem  to  question  her;  he  spoke  as  if  he 
knew. 

"It  is  an  old  story  to  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Gertrude. 

"What  makes  you  think  so? "  asked  he,  smiling. 

Gertrude  was  disconcerted  by  his  look,  and  still  more  by  his 
smile ;  it  changed  his  whole  face  so,  —  it  made  him  look  so 
handsome,  and  yet  so  melancholy.  She  blushed,  and  could  not 
reply ;  he  saved  her  the  trouble.  —  "  That  is  hardly  a  fair  ques 
tion,  is  it?  You  probably  think  you  have  as  much  reason  for 
your  opinion  as  I  had  for  mine.  You  are  wrong,  however;  I 
never  was  here  before ;  but  I  am  too  old  a  traveller  to  carry  my 
enthusiasm  in  my  eyes  —  as  you  do,"  added  he,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  during  which  he  looked  her  full  in  the  face. 
Then,  seeming,  for  the  first  time,  to  perceive  the  embarrassment 
which  his  scrutiny  of  her  features  occasioned,  he  turned  away, 
and  a  shadow  passed  over  his  fine  countenance,  lending  it  for  a 
moment  an  expression  of  mingled  bitterness  and  pathos,  which 
served  at  once  to  disarm  Gertrude's  confusion  at  his  self-intro 
duction  and  subsequent  remarks,  and  render  her  forgetful  of 
everything  but  the  strange  interest  with  which  this  singular 
man  inspired  her. 


310  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Presently,  taking  a  vacant  chair  next  hers,  he  directed  her 
attention  to  a  beautiful  country  residence  on  their  right,  spoke 
of  its  former  owner,  whom  he  had  met  in  a  foreign  land,  and 
related  some  interesting  anecdotes  concerning  an  adventurous 
journey  which  they  had  taken  together.  This  again  introduced 
other  topics,  chiefly  connected  with  wanderings  in  countries  al 
most  unknown,  even  in  this  exploring  age;  and  so  rich  and 
varied  was  the  stranger's  conversation,  so  graphic  were  his  de 
scriptions,  so  exuberant  and  glowing  his  imagination,  and  so 
powerful  his  command  of  words  and  his  gift  at  expressing  and 
giving  force  to  his  thoughts,  that  his  young  and  enthusiastic 
listener  sat  entranced  with  admiration  and  delight. 

Her  highly  wrought  and  intellectual  nature  sympathized  fully 
with  the  fervor  and  poetry  of  a  mind  as  sensitive  as  her  own 
to  the  great  and  wonderful,  whether  in  nature  or  art;  and  her 
fancy  and  interest  thus  taken  by  storm,  her  calm  and  observant 
entertainer  had  soon  the  satisfaction  of  perceiving  that  he  had 
succeeded  in  disarming  her  diffidence  and  embarrassment;  for, 
as  she  listened  to  his  words,  and  even  met  the  occasional  glance 
of  his  dark  eyes,  her  animated  and  beaming  countenance  no 
longer  showed  signs  of  fear  or  distrust. 

He  took  no  advantage,  however,  of  the  apparent  self-forget- 
fulness  with  which  she  enjoyed  his  society,  but  continued  to 
enlarge  upon  such  subjects  as  naturally  presented  themselves, 
and  was  careful  not  to  disturb  her  equanimity  by  again  bestow 
ing  upon  her  the  keen  and  scrutinizing  gaze  which  had  proved 
so  disconcerting.  By  the  time,  therefore,  that  Dr.  Jeremy  came 
in  search  of  his  young  charge,  conversation  between  her  and  the 
stranger  had  assumed  so  much  ease  and  freedom  from  restraint 
that  the  doctor  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  exclaimed,  "This  is  pretty  well,  I  declare!" 

Gertrude  did  not  see  the  doctor  approach,  but  looked  up  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice.  Conscious  of  the  surprise  it  must  be 
to  him  to  find  her  talking  so  familiarly  with  a  complete  stran 
ger,  she  colored  slightly  at  his  abrupt  remark;  but,  observing 
that  her  companion  was  quite  unconcerned,  and  even  received 
it  with  a  smile,  she  felt  herself  rather  amused  than  embarrassed ; 
for,  strangely  enough,  the  latter  feeling  had  almost  entirely  van 
ished,  and  she  had  come  to  feel  confidence  in  her  fellow-travel 
ler,  who  rose,  shook  hands  with  Dr.  Jeremy,  to  whom  he  had, 
ihe  previous  day,  been  introduced,  and  said,  with  perfect  com- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  311 

posure,  "Will  you  have  the  kindness,  sir,  to  present  me  to  this 
young  lady.  We  have  already  had  some  conversation  together, 
but  do  not  yet  know  by  what  name  we  may  address  each  other. " 

Dr.  Jeremy  having  performed  the  ceremony  of  introduction, 
Mr.  Phillips  bowed  gracefully,  and  looked  at  Gertrude  in  such 
a  benignant,  fatherly  way  that  she  hesitated  not  to  take  his  of 
fered  hand.  He  detained  hers  a  moment  while  he  said,  "Do 
not  be  afraid  of  me  when  we  meet  again ; "  and  then  walked 
away,  and  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the  deck  until  passengers 
for  Catskill  were  summoned  to  dinner,  when  he,  as  well  as  Dr. 
Jeremy  and  Gertrude,  went  below. 

The  doctor  tried  to  rally  Gertrude  a  little  about  her  gray- 
headed  beau,  declaring  that  he  was  yet  young  and  handsome, 
and  that  she  could  have  his  hair  dyed  any  color  she  pleased. 
But  he  could  not  succeed  in  annoying  her  in  that  way,  for  her 
interest  in  him,  which  she  did  not  deny,  was  quite  independent 
of  his  personal  appearance. 

The  bustle,  however,  of  dinner,  and  going  on  shore  at  Cats- 
kill,  banished  from  the  good  doctor's  head  all  thought  of  every 
thing  except  the  safety  of  himself,  his  ladies,  and  their  baggage ; 
fit  cause,  indeed,  for  anxiety  to  a  more  experienced  traveller 
than  he.  For,  so  short  was  the  time  allotted  for  the  boat  to 
stop  at  the  landing  and  deposit  the  passengers,  and  such  was  the 
confusion  attending  the  operation  of  pushing  them  on  shore  and 
flinging  their  baggage  after  them,  that  when  the  panting  engine 
was  again  set  in  motion  the  little  crowd  collected  on  the  wharf 
resembled  rather  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep  than  human  beings 
with  a  free  will  of  their  own. 

Emily,  whose  nervous  system  was  somewhat  disordered,  clung 
tremblingly  to  Gertrude ;  and  Gertrude  found  herself,  she  knew 
not  how,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Phillips,  to  whose  silent 
exertions  they  were  both  indebted  for  their  safety  in  disembark 
ing.  Mrs.  Jeremy,  in  the  mean  time,  was  counting  up  the 
trunks,  while  her  husband,  with  his  foot  upon  one  of  them, 
and  a  carpet-bag  in  his  left  hand,  was  loudly  denouncing  the 
steamboat,  its  conductors,  and  the  whole  hurrying,  skurrying 
Yankee  nation. 

Two  stage-coaches  were  waiting  at  the  wharf  to  take  passen 
gers  up  the  mountain,  and  before  Dr.  Jeremy  had  turned  his 
back  upon  the  river  Emily  and  Gertrude  were  placed  in  one  of 
them  by  Mr.  Phillips,  who,  without  asking  questions,  or  even 


312  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

speaking  at  all,  took  this  office  upon  himself,  and  then  went  to 
inform  the  doctor  of  their  whereabouts.  The  doctor  and  his 
wife  soon  joined  them;  a  party  of  strangers  occupied  the  other 
seats  in  the  coach,  and,  after  some  delay,  they  commenced  the 
afternoon's  drive. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  313 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

Believe  in  God  as  in  the  sun,  —  and,  lo  ! 
Along  thy  soul  morn's  youth  restored  shall  glow ; 
As  rests  the  earth,  so  rest,  0  troubled  heart, 
Rest,  till  the  burden  of  the  cloud  depart  ! 

NEW  TIMON. 

BEFORE  they  had  passed  through  the  dusty  village,  and 
gained  the  road  leading  in  the  direction  of  the  Mountain  House, 
they  became  painfully  conscious  of  the  vast  difference  between 
the  temperature  of  the  river  and  that  of  the  inland  country,  and, 
in  being  suddenly  deprived  of  the  refreshing  breeze  they  had 
enjoyed  on  board  the  boat,  they  fully  realized  the  extreme  heat 
of  the  weather.  For  the  first  few  miles  Gertrude's  whole  atten 
tion  was  required  to  shield  Emily  and  herself  from  the  rays  of 
a  burning  sun  which  shone  into  the  coach  full  upon  their  faces, 
and  it  was  a  great  relief  when  they  at  last  reached  the  steep  but 
smooth  and  beautifully  shaded  road  which  led  up  the  side  of 
the  mountain. 

The  atmosphere  being  perfectly  clear,  the  gradually  widening 
prospect  was  most  beautiful,  and  Gertrude's  delight  and  rapture 
were  such  that  the  restraint  imposed  by  stage-coach  decorum 
was  almost  insupportable.  When,  therefore,  the  ascent  became 
so  laborious  that  the  gentlemen  were  invited  to  alight,  and  re 
lieve  the  weary  horses  of  a  part  of  their  burden,  Gertrude  gladly 
accepted  Dr.  Jeremy's  proposal  that  she  should  accompany  him 
on  a  walk  of  a  mile  or  two. 

Gertrude  was  an  excellent  walker,  and  she  and  the  still  active 
doctor  soon  left  the  coaches  far  behind  them.  At  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  they  stopped  to  view  the  scene  below,  and  lost  in 
silent  admiration,  stood  enjoying  the  stillness  and  beauty  of  the 
spot,  when  they  were  startled  by  a  voice  close  beside  them  say 
ing,  "A  fine  landscape,  certainly!" 

They  looked  around,  and  saw  Mr.  Phillips  seated  upon  a 
moss-grown  rock,  against  which  Gertrude  was  at  the  moment 
leaning.  His  attitude  was  easy  and  careless,  his  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  lay  on  the  ground,  where  it  had  fallen,  and  his  snow 


314  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

besprinkled  but  wavy  and  still  beautiful  hair  was  tossed  back 
from  his  high  and  expanded  forehead.  One  would  have  thought, 
to  look  at  him  leaning  so  idly  and  even  boyishly  upon  his  hand, 
that  he  had  been  sitting  there  for  hours  at  least,  and  felt  quite 
at  home  in  the  place.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  however,  imme 
diately  upon  being  perceived,  and  joined  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Ger 
trude. 

"You  have  got  the  start  of  us,  sir,"  said  the  former. 

"Yes;  I  have  walked  from  the  village,  —  my  practice  always 
when  the  roads  are  such  that  no  time  can  be  gained  by  riding. " 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  in  Gertrude's  hand,  without  looking 
at  her,  or  seeming  conscious  what  he  was  doing,  a  bouquet  of 
rich  laurel  blossoms,  which  he  had  probably  gathered  during  his 
walk.  She  would  have  thanked  him,  but  his  absent  manner 
was  such  that  it  afforded  her  no  opportunity,  especially  as  he 
went  on  talking  with  the  doctor,  as  if  she  had  not  been  present. 

All  three  resumed  their  walk.  Mr.  Phillips  and  Dr.  Jeremy 
conversed  in  an  animated  manner,  and  Gertrude,  content  to  be 
a  listener,  soon  perceived  that  she  was  not  the  only  person  to 
whom  the  stranger  had  power  to  render  himself  agreeable.  Dr. 
Jeremy  engaged  him  upon  a  variety  of  subjects,  upon  all  of 
which  he  appeared  equally  well  informed ;  and  Gertrude  smiled 
to  see  her  old  friend  more  than  once  rub  his  hands  together, 
according  to  his  well-known  manner  of  expressing  boundless 
satisfaction. 

Now,  Gertrude  thought  their  new  acquaintance  must  be  a 
botanist  by  profession,  so  versed  was  he  in  everything  relating 
to  that  department  of  science.  Then,  again,  she  was  equally 
sure  that  geology  must  have  been  with  him  an  absorbing  study, 
so  intimate  ,seemed  his  acquaintance  with  mother  earth;  and 
both  of  these  impressions  were  in  turn  dispelled,  when  he  talked 
of  the  ocean  like  a  sailor,  of  the  counting-room  like  a  merchant, 
of  Paris  like  a  man  of  fashion  and  the  world. 

In  the  mean  time,  she  walked  beside  him,  silent  but  not  for 
gotten  or  unnoticed ;  for,  as  they  approached  a  rough  and  steep 
ascent,  he  offered  his  arm,  and  expressed  a  fear  lest  she  should 
become  fatigued.  She  assured  him  there  was  no  danger  of  that. 
Dr.  Jeremy  declared  it  his  belief  that  Gerty  could  outwalk  them 
both ;  and,  thus  satisfied,  Mr.  Phillips  resumed  the  broken  thread 
of  their  discourse,  into  which,  before  long,  Gertrude  was  drawn 
almost  unawares. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  315 

Mr.  Phillips  was  a  man  who  knew  how  to  inspire  awe,  and 
even  fear,  when  such  was  his  pleasure.  The  reverse  being  the 
case,  however,  he  had  equal  ability  to  dispel  such  sentiments, 
awaken  confidence,  and  bid  character  unfold  itself  at  his  bid 
ding.  He  no  longer  seemed  in  Gertrude's  eyes  a  stranger; 
he  was  a  mystery,  certainly,  but  not  a  forbidding  one.  She 
longed  to  know  more  of  him ;  to  learn  the  history  of  a  life  which 
many  an  incident  of  his  own  narrating  proved  to  have  been  made 
up  of  strange  and  mingled  experience ;  especially  did  her  sym 
pathetic  nature  desire  to  fathom  the  cause  of  that  deep-seated 
melancholy  which  shadowed  and  darkened  his  noble  counte 
nance,  and  made  his  very  smile  a  sorrowful  thing. 

Dr.  Jeremy,  who  in  a  degree  shared  her  curiosity,  asked  a 
few  leading  questions,  in  hopes  to  obtain  some  clue  to  his  new 
friend's  personal  history;  but  in  vain.  Mr.  Phillips's  lips  were 
either  sealed  on  the  subject  or  opened  only  to  baffle  the  curios 
ity  of  his  interrogator. 

At  length  the  doctor  was  compelled  to  give  way  to  a  weari 
ness  which  he  could  no  longer  disguise  from  himself  or  his  com 
panions,  much  as  he  disliked  to  acknowledge  the  fact;  and, 
seating  themselves  by  the  roadside,  they  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  coach. 

There  had  been  a  short  silence,  when  the  doctor,  looking  at 
Gertrude,  remarked,  "There  will  be  no  church  for  us  to-morrow, 
Gerty." 

"No  church!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  gazing  about  her  with  a 
look  of  reverence ;  "  how  can  you  say  so  ?  " 

Mr.  Phillips  bestowed  upon  her  a  smile  of  interest  and  in 
quiry,  and  said,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "There  is  no  Sunday  here, 
Miss  Flint,  it  doesn't  come  up  so  high." 

He  spoke  lightly,  —  too  lightly,  Gertrude  thought,  —  and 
she  replied  with  some  seriousness,  and  much  sweetness,  "  I  have 
often  rejoiced  that  the  Sabbath  had  been  sent  down  into  the 
lower  earth ;  the  higher  we  go,  the  nearer  we  come,  I  trust,  to 
the  eternal  Sabbath." 

Mr.  Phillips  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  away  without  replying. 
There  was  an  expression  about  his  mouth  which  Gertrude  did 
not  exactly  like ;  but  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  re 
proach  him  for  the  slight  sneer  which  his  manner,  rather  than 
his  look,  implied,  for  as  he  gazed  a  moment  or  two  into  va 
cancy,  there  was  in  his  wild  and  absent  countenance  such  a  look 


316  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

of  sorrow,  that  she  could  only  pity  and  wonder.  The  coaches 
now  came  up,  and  as  he  placed  her  in  her  former  seat,  he  re 
sumed  his  wonted  serene  and  kindly  expression,  and  she  felt 
convinced  that  it  was  only  doing  justice  to  his  frank  and  open 
face  to  believe  that  nothing  was  hid  behind  it  that  would  not 
do  honor  to  the  man. 

An  hour  more  brought  them  to  the  Mountain  House,  and, 
greatly  to  their  joy,  they  were  at  once  shown  to  some  of  the 
most  excellent  rooms  the  hotel  afforded.  As  Gertrude  stood 
at  the  window  of  the  chamber  allotted  to  herself  and  Emily, 
and  heard  the  loud  murmurs  of  some  of  her  fellow-travellers 
who  were  denied  any  tolerable  accommodation,  she  could  not 
but  be  astonished  at  Dr.  Jeremy's  unusual  good  fortune  in  be 
ing  treated  with  such  marked  partiality. 

Emily,  being  greatly  fatigued  with  the  toilsome  journey,  had 
supper  brought  to  her  own  room,  and  Gertrude  partaking  of  it 
with  her,  neither  of  them  sought  other  society  that  night,  but 
at  an  early  hour  betook  themselves  to  rest. 

The  last  thing  that  Gertrude  heard,  before  falling  asleep,  was 
the  voice  of  Dr.  Jeremy,  saying  as  he  passed  their  door,  "Take 
care,  Gerty,  and  be  up  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise." 

She  was  not  up  in  time,  however,  nor  was  the  doctor  himself ; 
neither  of  them  had  calculated  upon  the  sun's  being  such  an 
early  riser;  and  though  Gertrude,  mindful  of  the  caution, 
sprung  up  almost  before  her  eyes  were  open,  a  flood  of  daylight 
was  pouring  in  at  the  window,  and  a  scene  met  her  gaze  which 
at  once  put  to  flight  every  regret  at  having  oyerslept  herself, 
since  nothing,  she  thought,  could  be  more  solemnly  glorious 
than  that  which  now  lay  outspread  before  her. 

From  the  surface  of  the  rocky  platform  upon  which  the  house 
was  built,  far  out  to  the  distant  horizon,  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
but  a  sea  of  snowy  clouds,  which  wholly  overshadowed  the  lower 
earth,  and  hid  it  from  view.  Vast,  solid,  and  of  the  most  per 
fect  whiteness,  they  stretched  on  every  side,  forming,  as  they 
lay  in  thick  masses,  between  which  not  a  crevice  was  discernible, 
an  unbroken  curtain,  dividing  the  heavens  from  the  earth. 

While  most  of  the  world,  however,  was  thus  shut  out  from 
the  clear  light  of  morning,  the  mountain-top  was  rejoicing  in 
an  unusually  brilliant  and  glorious  dawn,  the  beauty  of  which 
was  greatly  enhanced  by  those  very  clouds  which  were  obscur 
ing  and  shadowing  the  dwellings  of  men  below.  A  fairy  bark 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  317 

might  have  floated  upon  the  undulating  waves  which  glistened 
in  the  sunshine  like  new-fallen  snow,  and  which,  contrasted 
with  the  clear  blue  sky  above,  formed  a  picture  of  singular  gran 
deur.  The  foliage  of  the  oaks,  the  pines,  and  the  maples,  which 
had  found  root  in  this  lofty  region,  was  rich,  clear,  and  polished, 
and  tame  and  fearless  birds  of  various  note  were  singing  in  the 
branches.  Gertrude  gave  one  long  look,  then  hastened  to  dress 
herself  and  go  out  upon  the  platform.  The  house  was  perfectly 
still ;  no  one  seemed  yet  to  be  stirring,  and  she  stood  for  some 
time  entranced,  almost  breathless,  with  awe  and  admiration. 

At  length  she  heard  footsteps,  and  looking  up,  saw  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Jeremy  approaching;  the  former,  as  usual,  full  of  life, 
and  dragging  forward  his  reluctant,  sleepy  partner,  whose  coun 
tenance  proclaimed  how  unwillingly  she  had  foregone  her  morn 
ing  nap.  The  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  as  they  joined  Gertrude. 
"Very  fine  this,  Gerty!  A  touch  beyond  anything  I  had  cal 
culated  upon." 

Gertrude  turned  upon  him  her  beaming  eyes,  but  did  not 
speak.  Satisfied,  however,  with  the  expression  of  her  face, 
which  was  sufficient,  without  words,  to  indicate  her  appreciation 
of  the  scene,  the  doctor  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  flat  rock 
upon  which  they  stood,  placed  his  hands  beneath  his  coat-tails, 
and  indulged  in  a  soliloquy,  made  up  of  short  exclamations  and 
interjectional  phrases,  expressive  of  his  approbation,  still  fur 
ther  confirmed  and  emphasized  by  a  quick,  regular  nodding  of 
his  head. 

"Why,  this  looks  queer,  does  n't  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  rub 
bing  her  eyes,  and  gazing  about  her;  "but  I  dare  say  it  would 
be  just  so  an  hour  or  two  hence.  I  don't  see  what  the  doctor 
would  make  me  get  up  so  early  for."  Then,  catching  sight  of 
her  husband's  position,  she  darted  forward,  exclaiming,  "Dr. 
Jerry,  for  mercy's  sake,  don't  stand  so  near  the  edge  of  that 
precipice!  Why,  are  you  crazy,  man?  You  frighten  me  to 
death!  you'll  fall  over  and  break  your  neck,  as  sure  as  the 
world!" 

Finding  the  doctor  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  she  caught  hold  of 
his  coat,  and  tried  to  drag  him  backwards;  upon  which  he 
turned  about,  inquired  what  was  the  matter,  and  perceiving  her 
anxiety,  considerately  retreated  a  few  paces;  the  next  moment, 
however,  he  was  once  more  in  the  same  precarious  spot.  The 
same  scene  was  reenacted,  and  finally,  after  the  poor  woman's 


318  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

fears  had  been  excited  and  relieved  half  a  dozen  times  in  suc 
cession,  she  grew  so  disturbed,  that,  looking  most  imploringly 
at  Gertrude,  she  begged  her  to  get  the  doctor  away  from  that 
dangerous  place,  for  the  poor  man  was  so  venturesome  he  would 
surely  be  killed. 

"Suppose  we  explore  that  little  path  at  the  right  of  the 
house,"  suggested  Gertrude;  "it  looks  attractive." 

"So  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "beautiful  little  shady 
path.  Come,  doctor,  Gerty  and  I  are  going  to  walk  up  here,  — 
come. " 

The  doctor  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  she  pointed. 
"Ah! "  said  he,  "that  is  the  path  the  man  at  the  office  spoke 
about;  it  leads  up  to  the  pine  gardens.  We'll  climb  up,  by 
all  means,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is." 

Gertrude  led  the  way,  Mrs.  Jeremy  followed,  and  the  doctor 
brought  up  the  rear,  —  all  walking  in  single  file,  for  the  path 
was  a  mere  foot-track.  The  ascent  was  very  steep,  and  they 
had  not  proceeded  far  before  Mrs.  Jeremy,  panting  with  heat 
and  fatigue,  stopped  short,  and  declared  her  inability  to  reach 
the  top;  she  would  not  have  thought  of  coming  if  she  had 
known  what  a  horrid  hard  hill  she  had  got  to  climb.  Encour 
aged  and  assisted,  however,  by  her  husband  and  Gertrude,  she 
was  induced  to  make  a  further  attempt;  and  they  had  gone  on 
some  distance  when  Gertrude,  who  happened  for  a  moment  to 
be  some  steps  in  advance,  heard  Mrs.  Jeremy  give  a  slight 
scream.  She  looked  back;  the  doctor  was  laughing  heartily, 
but  his  wife,  who  was  the  picture  of  consternation,  was  endeav 
oring  to  pass  him  and  retrace  her  steps  down  the  hill,  at  the 
same  time  calling  upon  her  to  follow. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Gertrude. 

"Matter!"  cried  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "why,  this  hill  is  covered 
with  rattlesnakes,  and  here  we  are  all  going  up  to  be  bitten  to 
death!" 

"No  such  thing,  Gerty!"  said  the  doctor,  still  laughing. 
"I  only  told  her  there  had  been  one  killed  here  this  summer, 
and  now  she  's  making  it  an  excuse  for  turning  back." 

"I  don't  care!"  said  the  good-natured  lady,  half  laughing 
herself,  in  spite  of  her  fears;  "if  there's  been  one,  there  may 
be  another,  and  I  won't  stay  here  a  minute  longer!  I  thought 
it  was  a  bad  enough  place  before,  and  now  I  'm  going  down 
faster  than  I  came  up." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  319 

Finding  her  determined,  the  doctor  hastened  to  accompany 
her,  calling  to  Gertrude  as  he  went,  however,  assuring  her  there 
was  no  danger,  and  begging  her  to  keep  on  and  wait  for  him  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  where  he  would  join  her  after  he  had  left 
his  wife  in  safety  at  the  hotel.  Gertrude,  therefore,  went  on 
alone.  For  the  first  few  rods  she  looked  carefully  about  her, 
and  thought  of  rattlesnakes;  but  the  path  was  so  well  worn 
that  she  felt  sure  it  must  be  often  trod  and  was  probably  safe, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  place  soon  engrossed  all  her  attention. 
After  a  few  moments  spent  in  active  climbing,  she  reached  the 
highest  point  of  ground,  and  found  herself  once  more  on  an 
elevated  woody  platform,  from  which  she  could  look  forth  as 
before  upon  the  unbroken  sea  of  clouds. 

She  seated  herself  at  the  root  of  an  immense  pine-tree,  re 
moved  her  bonnet,  for  she  was  warm  from  recent  exercise,  and 
as  she  inhaled  the  refreshing  mountain  breeze,  gave  herself  up 
to  the  train  of  reflection  which  she  had  been  indulging  when 
disturbed  by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

She  had  sat  thus  but  a  moment,  when  a  slight  rustling  noise 
startled  her;  she  remembered  the  rattlesnakes,  and  was  spring 
ing  to  her  feet,  but  hearing  a  low  sound,  as  of  some  one  breath 
ing,  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came,  and 
saw,  only  a  few  yards  from  her,  the  figure  of  a  man  stretched 
upon  the  ground,  apparently  asleep.  She  went  towards  it  with 
a  careful  step,  and  before  she  could  see  the  face,  the  large  straw 
hat  and  the  long,  blanched,  wavy  hair  betrayed  the  identity 
of  the  individual.  Mr.  Phillips  was,  or  appeared  to  be  sleep 
ing;  his  head  was  pillowed  upon  his  arm,  his  eyes  were  closed, 
and  his  attitude  denoted  perfect  repose.  Gertrude  stood  still 
and  looked  at  him.  As  she  did  so,  his  countenance  suddenly 
changed;  the  peaceful  expression  gave  place  to  the  same  un 
happy  look  which  had  at  first  excited  her  sympathy.  His  lips 
moved,  and  in  his  dreams  he  spoke,  or  rather  shouted,  "No! 
no !  no ! "  each  time  that  he  repeated  the  word  pronouncing  it 
with  more  vehemence  and  emphasis;  then  wildly  throwing  one 
arm  above  his  head,  he  let  it  fall  gradually  and  heavily  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  excitement  subsiding  from  his  face,  he  uttered 
the  simple  words,  "  0,  dear !  "  much  as  a  grieved  and  tired 
child  might  do  as  he  leans  his  head  upon  his  mother's  knee. 

Gertrude  was  deeply  touched.  She  forgot  that  he  was  a 
stranger;  she  saw  only  a  sufferer.  An  insect  lit  upon  his  fair, 


320  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

open  forehead;  she  leaned  over  him,  brushed  away  the  greedy 
creature,  and  as  she  did  so,  one  of  the  many  tears  that  filled 
her  eyes  fell  upon  his  cheek. 

Quietly,  then,  without  motion  or  warning,  he  awoke,  and 
looked  full  in  the  face  of  the  embarrassed  girl,  who  started,  and 
would  have  hastened  away,  but,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  caught 
her  hand  and  detained  her.  He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment 
without  speaking;  then  said,  in  a  grave  voice,  "My  child,  did 
you  shed  that  tear  for  me  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  except  by  her  eyes,  which  were  still  glis 
tening  with  the  dew  of  sympathy. 

"I  believe  you  did,"  said  he,  "and  from  my  heart  I  bless 
you.  But  never  again  weep  for  a  stranger;  you  will  have  woes 
enough  of  your  own,  if  you  live  to  be  of  my  age." 

"If  I  had  not  had  sorrows  already,"  said  Gertrude,  "  I  should 
not  know  how  to  feel  for  others ;  if  I  had  not  often  wept  for 
myself,  I  should  not  weep  now  for  you." 

"  But  you  are  happy  1 " 

"Yes." 

"Some  find  it  easy  to  forget  the  past." 

"/have  not  forgotten  it." 

"Children's  griefs  are  trifles,  and  you  are  still  scarce  more 
than  a  child." 

"I  never  was  a  child,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Strange  girl !  "  soliloquized  her  companion.  "  Will  you  sit 
down  and  talk  with  me  a  few  mimites  1 " 

Gertrude  hesitated. 

"  Do  not  refuse ;  I  am  an  old  man,  and  very  harmless.  Take 
a  seat  here  under  this  tree,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  the 
prospect." 

Gertrude  smiled  inwardly  at  the  idea  of  his  being  such  an 
old  man,  and  calling  her  a  child;  but,  old  or  young,  she  had  it 
not  in  her  heart  to  fear  him,  or  refuse  his  request.  She  sat 
down,  and  he  seated  himself  beside  her,  but  did  not  speak  of 
the  prospect,  or  of  anything,  for  a  moment  or  two;  then  turn 
ing  to  her  abruptly  he  said,  "So  you  never  were  unhappy  in 
your  life  1 " 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Gertrude.      "0,  yes,  often." 

"But  never  long?" 

"Yes,  I  can  remember  whole  years  when  happiness  was  a 
thing  I  had  never  even  dreamed  of." 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  321 

"But  comfort  came  at  last.  What  do  you  think  of  those  to 
whom  it  never  comes  ?  " 

"I  know  enough  of  sorrow  to  pity  and  wish  to  help  them." 

"What  can  you  do  for  them? " 

"  Hope  for  them,  pray  for  them ! "  said  Gertrude,  with  a 
voice  full  of  feeling. 

"What  if  they  be  past  hope?  —  beyond  the  influence  of 
prayer  ? " 

"There  are  no  such,"  said  Gertrude,  with  decision. 

"Do  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Phillips,  "this  curtain  of  thick 
clouds,  now  overshadowing  the  world  ?  Even  so  many  a  heart 
is  weighed  down  and  overshadowed  by  thick  and  impenetrable 
darkness." 

"But  the  light  shines  brightly  above  the  clouds,"  said  Ger 
trude. 

"Above!  well,  that  may  be;  but  what  avails  it  to  those  who 
see  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  sometimes  a  weary  and  toilsome  road  that  leads  to  the 
mountain-top;  but  the  pilgrim  is  well  repaid  for  the  trouble 
which  brings  him  above  the  clouds^  replied  Gertrude,  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Few  ever  find  the  road  that  leads  so  high,"  responded  her 
melancholy  companion ;  "  and  those  who  do  cannot  live  long  in 
so  elevated  an  atmosphere.  They  must  come  down  from  their 
height,  and  again  dwell  among  the  common  herd;  again  mingle 
in  the  warfare  with  the  mean,  the  base,  and  the  cruel;  thicker 
clouds  will  gather  over  their  heads,  and  they  will  be  buried  in 
redoubled  darkness." 

"But  they  have  seen  the  glory;  they  know  that  the  light  is 
ever  burning  on  high,  and  will  have  faith  to  believe  it  will 
pierce  the  gloom  at  last.  See,  see ! "  said  she,  her  eyes  glowing 
with  the  fervor  with  which  she  spoke,  —  "  even  now  the  heav 
iest  clouds  are  parting ;  the  sun  will  soon  light  up  the  valley ! " 

She  pointed,  as  she  spoke,  to  a  wide  fissure  which  was  grad 
ually  disclosing  itself,  as  the  hitherto  solid  mass  of  clouds  sepa 
rated  on  either  side,  and  then  turned  to  the  stranger  to  see  if 
he  observed  the  change;  but,  with  the  same  smile  upon  his 
unmoved  countenance,  he  was  watching,  not  the  display  of  na 
ture  in  the  distance,  but  that  close  at  his  side.  He  was  gazing 
with  intense  interest  upon  the  young  and  ardent  worshipper  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  true ;  and  in  studying  her  features  and 


322  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

observing  the  play  of  her  countenance,  he  seemed  so  wholly  ab 
sorbed,  that  Gertrude  —  believing  he  was  not  listening  to  her 
words,  but  had  fallen  into  one  of  his  absent  moods  —  ceased 
speaking,  rather  abruptly,  and  was  turning  away,  when  he  said, 

"Go  on,  happy  child!  Teach  me,  if  you  can,  to  see  the 
world  tinged  with  the  rosy  coloring  it  wears  for  you  •  teach  me 
to  love  and  pity,  as  you  do,  that  miserable  thing  called  man. 
I  warn  you  that  you  have  a  difficult  task,  but  you  seem  to  be 
very  hopeful." 

"  Do  you  hate  the  world  ?  "  asked  Gertrude,  with  straightfor 
ward  simplicity. 

"Almost,"  was  Mr.  Phillips's  answer. 

"/did  once,"  said  Gertrude  musingly. 

"And  will  again,  perhaps." 

"No,  that  would  be  impossible;  it  has  been  a  good  foster- 
mother  to  its  orphan  child,  and  now  I  love  it  dearly." 

"  Have  they  been  kind  to  you  ? "  asked  he,  with  eagerness. 
"Have  heartless  strangers  deserved  the  love  you  seem  to  feel 
for  them  ? " 

"Heartless  strangers!  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  the  tears  rushing 
to  her  eyes.  "0  sir,  I  wish  you  could  have  known  my  Uncle 
True,  and  Emily,  dear,  blind  Emily !  You  would  think  better 
of  the  world,  for  their  sakes." 

"Tell  me  about  them,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice, 
and  looking  fixedly  down  into  the  precipice  which  yawned  at 
his  feet^ 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,  only  that  one  was  old  and  poor, 
and  the  other  wholly  blind;  and  yet  they  made  everything  rich, 
and  bright,  and  beautiful  to  me,  a  poor,  desolate,  injured  child." 

"Injured!  Then  you  acknowledge  that  you  had  previously 
met  with  wrong  and  injustice  ?  " 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  my  earliest  recollections  are  only 
of  want,  suffering,  and  much  unkindness." 

"And  these  friends  took  pity  on  you?  " 

"  Yes.  One  became  an  earthly  father  to  me,  and  the  other 
taught  me  where  to  find  a  heavenly  one." 

"  And  ever  since  then  you  have  been  free  and  light  as  air, 
without  a  wish  or  care  in  the  world  ? " 

"No,  indeed,  I  did  not  say  so,  — I  do  not  mean  so,"  said 
Gertrude.  "I  have  had  to  part  from  Uncle  True,  and  to  give 
up  other  dear  friends,  some  for  years  and  some  forever;  I  have 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  323 

had  many  trials,  many  lonely,  solitary  hours,  and  even  now  am 
oppressed  by  more  than  one  subject  of  anxiety  and  dread." 

"  How,  then,  so  cheerful  and  happy  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Phillips. 

Gertrude  had  risen,  for  she  saw  Dr.  Jeremy  approaching,  and 
stood  with  one  hand  resting  upon  a  solid  mass  of  stone,  under 
whose  protecting  shadow  she  had  been  seated.  She  smiled  a 
thoughtful  smile  at  Mr.  Phillips 's  question,  and  after  casting 
her  eyes  a  moment  into  the  deep  valley  beneath  her,  turned 
them  upon  him  with  a  look  of  holy  faith,  and  said,  in  a  low 
but  fervent  tone,  "I  see  the  gulf  yawning  beneath  me,  but  I 
lean  upon  the  Rock  of  ages." 

Gertrude  had  spoken  truly  when  she  said  that  more  than  one 
anxiety  and  dread  oppressed  her;  for,  mingled  with  a  daily  in 
creasing  fear  lest  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  Emily 
would  be  taken  from  her,  she  had  of  late  been  harassed  and 
grieved  by  the  thought  that  Willie  Sullivan,  towards  whom  her 
heart  yearned  with  more  than  a  sister's  love,  was  fast  forget 
ting  the  friend  of  his  childhood,  or,  at  least,  ceasing  to  regard 
her  with  the  love  and  tenderness  of  former  years.  It  was  now 
some  months  since  she  had  received  a  letter  from  India;  the 
last  was  short,  and  written  in  a  haste  which  Willie  apologized 
for  on  the  score  of  business  cares  and  duties,  and  Gertrude  was 
compelled  unwillingly  to  admit  the  chilling  presentiment  that 
now  that  his  mother  and  grandfather  were  no  more  the  ties 
which  bound  the  exile  to  his  native  home  were  sensibly  weak 
ened. 

Nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  hint,  even  to  Emily,  a 
suspicion  of  neglect  on  Willie's  part;  nothing  would  have 
shocked  her  more  than  hearing  such  neglect  imputed  to  him  by 
another;  but  still,  in  the  depths  of  her  own  heart,  she  some 
times  mused  with  wonder  upon  his  long  silence,  and  the  strange 
diminution  of  intercourse  between  herself  and  him.  During 
several  weeks  in  which  she  had  received  no  tidings  she  had  still 
continued  to  write  as  usual,  and  felt  sure  that  such  reminders 
must  have  reached  him  by  every  mail.  What,  then,  but  illness 
or  indifference  could  excuse  his  never  replying  to  her  faithfully 
dispatched  missives  1  She  often  tried  to  banish  from  her  mind 
any  self-questioning  upon  a  subject  so  involved  in  uncertainty; 
but  at  times  a  sadness  came  over  her  which  could  only  be  dis 
persed  by  turning  her  thoughts  upward  with  that  trusting  faith 
and  hope  which  had  so  often  sustained  her  drooping  spirits,  and 


324  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

it  was  from  one  of  these  soaring  reveries  that  she  had  turned 
with  pitying  looks  and  words  to  the  fellow-sufferer  whose  moans 
had  escaped  him  even  in  his  dreams. 

Dr.  Jeremy's  approach  was  the  signal  for  hearty  congratula 
tions  and  good-mornings  between  himself  and  Mr.  Phillips ;  the 
doctor  began  to  converse  in  his  animated  manner,  spoke  with 
hearty  delight  of  the  beauty  and  peacefulness  of  that  bright 
Sabbath  morning  in  the  mountains ;  and  Mr.  Phillips,  compelled 
to  exert  himself,  and  conceal,  if  he  could  not  dispel,  the  gloom 
which  weighed  upon  his  mind,  talked  with  an  ease,  and  even 
playfulness,  which  astonished  Gertrude,  who  walked  back  to  the 
house  silently  wondering  at  this  strange  and  inconsistent  man. 
She  did  not  see  him  at  breakfast,  and  at  dinner  he  took  a  seat 
at  some  distance  from  Dr.  Jeremy's  party,  and  merely  acknow 
ledged  their  acquaintance  by  a  graceful  salutation  to  Gertrude  as 
she  left  the  dining-hall. 

Still  later  in  the  day,  he  suddenly  made  his  appearance  upon 
the  broad  piazza  where  Emily  and  Gertrude  were  seated,  one 
pair  of  eyes  serving,  as  usual,  to  paint  pictures  for  the  minds 
of  both.  There  had  been  a  thunder  shower,  but  as  the  sun 
went  down  and  the  storm  passed  away,  a  brilliant  bow,  and  its 
almost  equally  brilliant  reflection,  spanned  the  horizon,  seem 
ingly  far  beneath  the  height  of  the  mountain-top,  and  the  lights 
and  shadows  which  were  playing  upon  the  valley  and  its  shin 
ing  river  were  brilliant  and  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Gertrude 
hoped  Mr.  Phillips  would  join  them;  she  knew  that  Emily 
would  be  charmed  with  his  rich  and  varied  conversation,  and 
felt  an  instinctive  hope  that  the  sweet  tones  of  the  comfort 
carrying  voice  which  so  many  loved  and  blessed  would  speak  to 
his  heart  a  lesson  of  peace.  But  she  hoped  in  vain;  he  started 
on  seeing  them,  walked  hastily  away,  and  Gertrude  soon  after 
espied  him  toiling  up  the  same  steep  path  which  had  attracted 
them  both  in  the  morning,  —  nor  did  he  make  his  appearance 
at  the  hotel  again  that  night. 

The  Jeremys  stayed  two  days  longer  at  the  Mountain  House ; 
the  invigorating  air  benefited  Emily,  who  appeared  stronger 
than  she  had  done  for  weeks  past,  and  was  able  to  take  many  a 
little  stroll  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house. 

Gertrude  was  never  weary  of  the  glorious  prospect,  upon 
which  she  gazed  with  ever  increasing  delight ;  and  an  excursion 
which  she  and  the  doctor  made  on  foot  to  the  cleft  in  the  heart 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  325 

of  the  mountain,  where  a  narrow  stream  leaps  a  distance  of  two 
hundred  feet  into  the  valley  below,  furnished  the  theme  for 
many  a  descriptive  reverie,  of  which  Emily  reaped  a  part  of  the 
enjoyment.  They  saw  no  more  of  their  new  acquaintance,  who 
had  disappeared  without  their  knowledge.  Dr.  Jeremy  inquired 
of  their  host  concerning  him,  and  learned  that  he  left  at  an 
early  hour  on  Monday,  and  took  up  a  pedestrian  course  down 
the  mountain. 

The  doctor  was  surprised  and  disappointed,  for  he  liked  Mr. 
Phillips  exceedingly,  and  had  flattered  himself,  from  some  par 
ticular  inquiries  he  had  made  concerning  their  proposed  route, 
that  he  had  an  idea  of  attaching  himself  to  their  party. 

"Never  mind,  Gerty,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  mock  condolence. 
"  I  dare  say  we  shall  come  across  him  yet,  some  time  when  we 
least  expect  it." 


326  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

Led  by  simplicity  divine, 

She  pleased,  and  never  tried  to  shine. 

HANNAH  MORE. 

FROM  Catskill  Dr.  Jeremy  proceeded  directly  to  Saratoga. 
The  place  was  crowded  with  visitors,  for  the  season  was  at  its 
height,  and  the  improvident  traveller  having  neglected  to  secure 
rooms,  they  had  no  right  to  expect  any  accommodation. 

"  Where  do  you  propose  stopping  1 "  inquired  an  acquaintance 
of  the  doctor's,  whom  they  accidentally  encountered  in  the  cars. 

"At  Congress  Hall,"  was  the  reply.  "It  will  be  a  quiet 
place  for  us  old  folks,  and  more  agreeable  than  any  other  house 
to  Miss  Graham,  who  is  an  invalid." 

"You  are  expected,  I  conclude?  " 

"Expected?    No;  who  should  be  expecting  us?  " 

"  Your  landlord.  If  you  have  not  engaged  rooms  you  will 
fare  badly,  for  every  hotel  is  crowded  to  overflowing." 

"We  must  take  our  chance,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an 
indifference  of  manner  which  wholly  forsook  him  upon  his  fairly 
arriving  at  his  destination,  and  learning  that  his  friend's  words 
were  true. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  are  going  to  do,"  said  he,  as  he 
joined  the  ladies,  whom  he  had  left  for  a  few  moments  while 
he  made  inquiries;  "they  say  every  house  is  full;  and  if  so, 
we  'd  better  take  the  next  train  of  cars  and  be  off,  for  we  can't 
sleep  in  the  street." 

"  Carriage,  sir  ?  "  shouted  a  hackman,  leaning  over  a  railing 
a  few  steps  distant,  and  beckoning  to  the  doctor  with  all  his 
might,  while  another  and  still  bolder  aspirant  for  employment 
tapped  his  shoulder,  and  made  a  similar  suggestion,  in  a  most 
insinuating  tone  of  voice. 

"Carriage!"  repeated  the  doctor  angrily.  "What  for? 
where  would  you  carry  us,  for  mercy's  sake?  There  isn't  a 
garret  to  be  had  in  your  town,  for  love  or  money." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  last  mentioned  petitioner  (a  sort  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  327 

omnibus  attache,  taking  off  his  cap  as  he  spoke,  and  wiping  his 
forehead  with  a  torn  and  soiled  pocket  handkerchief),  "  the 
houses  is  pretty  considerable  full  just  now,  to  be  sure,  but 
maybe  you  can  get  colonized  out." 

"  Colonized  out  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  still  in  a  tone  of  extreme 
vexation.  "That 's  what  I  think  we  are  already;  what  I  want  is 
to  get  in  somewhere.  "Where  do  you  usually  drive  your  coach  ?  " 

"To  Congress  Hall." 

"Drive  up,  then,  and  let  us  get  in;  and  mind,  if  they  don't 
take  us  at  Congress  Hall,  we  shall  expect  you  to  keep  us  until 
we  rind  better  accommodations." 

Mrs.  Jeremy,  Emily,  and  Gertrude,  were  consequently  as 
sisted  into  a  small  omnibus,  and  closely  packed  away  among 
half  a  dozen  ladies  and  children,  who,  tired,  dusty,  and  anxious, 
were  schooling  themselves  to  patience,  or  encouraging  themselves 
with  hope.  The  doctor  took  a  seat  upon  the  outside,  and  the 
moment  the  vehicle  stopped  hastened  to  present  himself  to  the 
landlord.  As  he  had  anticipated,  there  was  not  a  vacant  cor 
ner  in  the  house.  Wishing  to  accommodate  him,  however,  the 
office  keeper  announced  the  possibility  that  he  might  be  able 
before  night  to  furnish  him  with  one  room  in  a  house  in  the 
next  street. 

"One  room!  in  the  next  street!"  cried  the  doctor.  "Ah, 
that's  being  colonized  out,  is  it?  Well,  sir,  it  won't  do  for 
me,  I  must  have  a  place  to  put  my  ladies  in  at  once.  Why  in 
conscience  don't  you  have  hotels  enough  for  your  visitors? " 

"It  is  the  height  of  the  season,  sir,  and  —  " 

"  Why,  Dr.  Jeremy !  "  exclaimed  the  youthful  voice  of  Netta 
Gryseworth,  who  was  passing  through  the  hall  with  her  grand 
mother,  "how  do  you  do,  sir?  Are  Miss  Graham  and  Miss 
Flint  with  you  ?  Have  you  come  to  stay  ?  " 

Before  the  doctor  could  answer  her  questions,  and  pay  his 
respects  to  Madam  Gryseworth,  a  venerable  old  lady,  whom  he 
had  known  thirty  years  before,  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  ac 
costed  him. 

"Dr.  Jeremy?  "  said  he.  "Excuse  me,  I  did  not  know  you. 
Dr.  Jeremy,  of  Boston  ?  " 

"The  same,"  said  the  doctor,  bowing. 

"  Ah !  we  are  all  right,  then.  Your  rooms  are  reserved,  and 
will  be  made  ready  in  a  few  minutes:  they  were  vacated  two 
days  ago, and  have  not  been  occupied  since." 


328  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"What  is  all  this?"  exclaimed  the  honest  doctor.  "I  en 
gaged  no  rooms." 

"A  friend  did  it  for  you,  then,  sir;  a  fortunate  circumstance, 
especially  as  you  have  ladies  with  you.  Saratoga  is  very 
crowded  at  this  season;  there  were  seven  thousand  strangers  in 
the  town  yesterday." 

The  doctor  thanked  his  stars  and  his  unknown  friend,  and 
summoned  the  ladies  to  enjoy  their  good  fortune. 

"Why,  now,  ain't  we  lucky?"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  as  she 
glanced  round  the  comfortable  room  allotted  to  herself,  and 
then,  crossing  the  narrow  entry,  took  a  similar  survey  of  Emily's 
and  Gertrude's  apartment.  "  After  all  the  talk  everybody  made, 
too,  about  the  crowd  of  folks  there  were  here  scrambling  for 
places ! " 

The  doctor,  who  had  just  come  upstairs,  having  waited  to 
give  directions  concerning  his  baggage,  approached  the  door  in 
time  to  hear  his  wife's  last  remark,  and  entering  with  his  finger 
upon  his  lip,  and  a  mock  air  of  mystery,  exclaimed  in  a  low 
voice,  "Hush!  hush!  don't  say  too  much  about  it!  We  are 
profiting  by  a  glorious  mistake  on  the  part  of  our  good  land 
lord.  These  rooms  were  engaged  for  somebody,  that 's  certain, 
but  not  for  us.  However,  they  can't  do  more  than  turn  us  out 
when  the  right  folks  come,  and  until  then  we  have  a  prospect, 
I  see,  of  very  good  lodgings." 

But  if  the  Jeremys  were  not  the  right  folks,  the  right  folks 
never  came,  and  in  the  course  of  a  week  our  party  not  only 
ceased  to  be  conscious  of  their  precarious  footing  in  the  house, 
but  even  had  the  presumption  to  propose,  and  the  good  for 
tune  to  obtain,  a  favorable  exchange  for  Emily  to  a  bedroom 
upon  the  first  floor,  which  opened  directly  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  saved  her  the  necessity  of  passing  up  and  down  the  often 
crowded  staircases. 

It  was  nearly  tea-time  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  and  Emily 
and  Gertrude  had  just  completed  their  toilet,  when  there  was 
a  light  rap  upon  their  door.  Gertrude  hastened  to  open  it,  and 
to  admit  Ellen  Gryseworth,  who,  while  she  saluted  her  with 
southern  warmth  of  manner,  hesitated  at  the  threshold,  saying, 
"I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  an  intruder,  but  Netta  told  me 
you  had  arrived,  and  hearing  accidentally  from  the  chambermaid 
that  you  had  the  next  room  to  mine,  I  could  not  forbear  stop 
ping  a  moment  as  I  passed  to  tell  you  how  very  glad  I  am  to 
see  you  again." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  329 

Gertrude  and  Emily  expressed  their  pleasure  at  the  meeting, 
thanked  her  for  her  want  of  ceremony,  and  urged  her  to  come 
in  and  remain  with  them  until  the  gong  sounded  for  tea.  She 
availed  herself  of  the  invitation,  and  taking  a  seat  upon  the 
nearest  trunk,  proceeded  to  inquire  concerning  their  travels  and 
Emily's  health  since  they  parted  at  West  Point. 

Among  other  adventures,  Gertrude  mentioned  their  having 
^ain  encountered  Mr.  Phillips.  "  Indeed !  "  said  Miss  Gryse- 
worth,  "he  seems  to  be  a  ubiquitous  individual.  He  was  in 
Saratoga  a  day  or  two  ago,  and  sat  opposite  to  me  at  our  dinner 
table,  but  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  Did  you  become  ac 
quainted  with  him,  Miss  Graham  ?  " 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  did  not,"  replied  Emily;  then  looking 
smilingly  at  Gertrude,  she  added,  "Gerty  was  so  anxious  for 
an  opportunity  to  introduce  me,  that  I  was  quite  grieved  for  her 
disappointment. " 

"  Then  you  liked  him ! "  said  Miss  Gryseworth,  addressing 
herself  to  Gertrude,  and  speaking  with  great  earnestness.  "  I 
knew  you  would." 

"He  interested  me  much,"  replied  Gertrude.  "He  is  very 
agreeable,  very  peculiar,  and  to  me  rather  incomprehensible." 

"Non-committal,  I  see,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth  archly.  "I 
hope  you  will  have  a  chance  to  make  up  your  mind;  it  is  more 
than  I  can  do,  I  confess;  for  every  time  I  am  in  his  company 
I  recognize  some  new  and  unexpected  trait  of  character.  He 
got  so  angry  with  one  of  the  waiters,  the  day  he  dined  with  us 
in  New  York,  that  I  was  actually  frightened.  However,  I  be 
lieve  my  fears  were  groundless,  for  he  is  too  much  of  a  gentle 
man  to  bandy  words  with  an  inferior,  and  though  his  eyes 
flashed  like  coals  of  fire,  he  kept  his  temper  from  blazing  forth. 
I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  this  great  indignation  did 
not  spring  from  any  neglect  he  had  himself  received,  but  from 
the  man's  gross  inattention  to  two  dowdy  looking  women  from 
the  country,  who  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  feeing 
him,  and  therefore  got  nothing  to  eat  until  everybody  else  had 
finished,  and  looked  all  the  time  as  disappointed  and  ashamed 
as  if  they  were  just  out  of  the  state  prison." 

"Too  bad!"  exclaimed  Gertrude  energetically.  "I  don't 
wonder  Mr.  Phillips  felt  provoked  with  the  mercenary  fellow. 
I  like  him  for  that." 

"It  was  too  bad,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth.     "I  couldn't  help 


330  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

pitying  them,  myself.  One  of  them  —  a  young  girl,  fresh  from 
the  churn,  who  had  worn  her  best  white  gown  on  purpose  to 
make  a  figure  in  the  city  —  looked  just  ready  to  burst  out 
crying. " 

"I  hope  such  instances  of  neglect  are  not  very  common," 
said  Gertrude.  "I  am  afraid,  if  they  are,  Emily  and  I  shall 
be  on  the  crying  list,  for  Dr.  Jeremy  never  will  fee  the  waiters 
beforehand;  he  says  it  is  a  mean  thing,  and  he  should  scorn  to 
command  attention  in  that  way." 

"0,  you  need  have  no  such  fear,"  said  Miss  Gryse worth. 
"Persons  in  the  least  accustomed  to  hotel  life  can  always  com 
mand  a  moderate  share  of  attention,  especially  in  so  well-regu 
lated  an  establishment  as  this.  Grandmamma  shares  the  doctor's 
views  with  regard  to  bargaining  for  it  beforehand,  but  no  one 
ever  sees  her  neglected  here.  The  case  which  occurred  in  New 
York  was  a  gross  instance  of  that  partiality  for  which  the  pub 
lic  are  partly  to  blame.  The  waiters  can  tell  easily  enough  who 
will  endure  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  the  embarrassed  faces  of 
the  two  country  ladies,  who  found  so  fierce  an  advocate  in  Mr. 
Phillips,  were  alone  sufficient  to  lay  them  open  to  any  degree 
of  neglect." 

Another  light  tap  at  the  door,  and  this  time  it  was  Netta 
Gryseworth,  who  entered,  exclaiming,  "I  hear  Ellen's  voice, 
so  I  suppose  I  may  come  in.  I  am  provoked,"  added  she,  as 
she  kissed  Emily's  hand,  and  shook  Gertrude's  with  a  freedom 
and  vivacity  which  seemed  to  spring  partly  from  girlish  hoy- 
denism  and  partly  from  high-bred  independence  of  manner,  "  to 
think  that  while  I  have  been  watching  about  the  drawing-room 
door  for  this  half  hour,  so  as  to  see  you  the  first  minute  you 
came  in,  Ellen  has  been  sitting  here  on  a  trunk,  as  sociable  as 
all  the  world,  enjoying  your  society,  and  telling  you  every  bit 
of  the  news." 

"Not  every  bit,  Netta,"  said  Ellen;  "I  have  left  several 
choice  little  morsels  for  you." 

"  Have  you  told  Miss  Flint  about  the  Foxes  and  the  Coxes 
that  were  here  yesterday  ?  Has  she,  Miss  Flint  ?  " 

"Not  a  word  about  them,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Nor  about  the  fright  we  had  on  board  the  steamboat  ? " 

"No." 

"Nor  about  Mr.  Phillips's  being  here?" 

"0,  yes!  she  told  us  that." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  331 

"Ah,  she  did!"  exclaimed  Netta,  with  an  arch  look,  which 
called  up  her  sister's  blushes.  "And  did  she  tell  you  how  he 
occupied  this  room,  and  how  we  heard  him  through  the  thin 
partition  pacing  up  and  down  all  night,  and  how  it  kept  me  from 
sleeping,  and  gave  me  a  terrible  headache  all  the  next  day  1 " 

"No,  she  did  not  tell  me  that,"  said  Gertrude. 

"You  don't  either  of  you  walk  all  night,  do  you?"  asked 
Netta. 

"Not  of  ten." 

"0,  how  thankful  we  ought  to  be  to  have  you  for  neigh 
bors  ! "  replied  Netta.  "  If  that  horrible  man  had  stayed  here 
and  kept  up  that  measured  tread,  there  would  have  been  a  sui 
cide  either  in  his  room  or  ours  before  many  nights." 

"Do  you  think  he  was  ill? "  inquired  Gertrude. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Ellen;  "it  was  nothing  very  remarkable, 
—  not  for  him,  at  least,  —  all  his  habits  are  peculiar ;  but  it 
kept  Netta  awake  an  hour  or  two  and  made  her  fidgetty." 

"An  hour  or  two,  Ellen?  "  cried  Netta.  "It  was  the  whole 
night."  • 

"My  dear  sis,"  said  Ellen,  "you  don't  know  what  a  whole 
night  is.  You  never  saw  one." 

A  little  sisterly  discussion  might  have  ensued  about  the 
length  of  Mr.  Phillips 's  walk  and  Netta' s  consequent  wakeful- 
ness,  but  fortunately  the  gong  sounded,  and  Netta  flew  off  to 
her  own  room  to  brush  out  her  puffs  before  tea. 

Saratoga  is  a  queer  place.  One  sees  congregated  there,  at 
the  height  of  the  season,  delegates  from  every  part  of  our  own 
and  from  many  foreign  countries.  Fashion's  ladder  is  trans 
planted  thither,  and  all  its  rounds  are  filled.  Beauty,  wealth, 
pride,  and  folly  are  well  represented ;  and  so  too  are  wit,  genius, 
and  learning.  Idleness  reigns  supreme,  and  no  one,  not  even 
the  most  active,  busy,  and  industrious  citizen  of  our  working 
land,  dares,  in  this  her  legitimate  province,  to  dispute  her  tempo 
rary  sway.  Every  rank  of  society,  every  profession,  and  almost 
every  trade  meet  each  other  on  an  easy  and  friendly  footing. 
The  acknowledged  belle,  the  bearer  of  an  aristocratic  name,  the 
owner  of  a  well-filled  purse,  the  renowned  scholar,  artist,  or 
poet,  have  all  a  conspicuous  sphere  to  shine  in.  There  are 
many  counterfeits,  too.  The  nobodies  at  home  stand  a  chance 
to  be  considered  somebodies  here ;  and  the  first  people  of  a  dis 
tant  city,  accustomed  to  consider  themselves  somebodies,  sit  in 


382  THK    LAMI'U'.HII  II 

cornerfi  nri'l  pout  fit  Huddenly  finding  themr.elveH  nohodien,  All 
come,  however,  from  a  e.ommon  motive;  all  are  in  purmiit  of 
amw.ement,  recreation,  and  rent  from  lahor  ;  and,  in  this  search 
.-ifLi-r  pleai'.ine,  .1  friendly  and  henevolent  f.entmienl.  for  the  numt 
part  prevails  All  an-  in  motion,  and  tin-  throng,  of  well- 
dreBKed  people  moving  to  and  fio,  on  foot.,  on  horv.ehack,  and 
in  c/uriaiM-.,  together  wiUi  the  gay  UHHombUgM  crowded  upon 
tin-  pi;i/./.a;;  of  the  hoteln,  OODftitute  a  liv«'ly  and  f«  .!  I  .  '  T. -JM-  , 
and  lio  \vhr»  lovi'M  to  oli.^.i-rvi-.  human  natim:  may  r.l.udy  it  h«-ro 
in  itn  moHt  animal'-.d  form. 

It  waH  a  wholly  n«;w  exjMTirnr,<-  t,o  (ii-rf.rnde  ,  and  alUiouj/h, 
in  the  eomparativ  r«-t,n<-m<-nt,  and  privacy  of  (  IHUJMI- .  •.  Hall, 
•ho  wiw  only  t,h<-  n-H'-r.tion  of  Saratoga  ^ayr.ty,  and  h«  aid  only 
the  fv.ho  of  jtn  di-.tant.  hum,  th<-n-  wa«  rn<nijdi  of  novelty  and 
exeit.ement,  t.o  enferlain,  aimiHe,  and  f.urpnr.e  one  who  wa.^  a  rom- 
j.l«-t,»-  novi'-c  in  the  wayp.  of  fap.hionahle  life.  In  the.  <  irr  le  «,f 
hiy.li  hred,  polir.lie.il,  literary,  and  talented  per-ons;  whom  Madam 
(iryMe.worth  drew  ahout  h«-r,  nnd  into  whieh  Dr.  .leremy'H  party 
WW>  nt  once  admitted  mi  honored  nieinheni,  (ii-rtrndi-  fouml 
niiirli  that  wan  r.onj'emal  to  h«-r  cultivated  and  r.upenor  tnHte,, 
and  f.he  herr.elf  «oon  c.arm-  to  l»e  appreciated  and  admin-d  a  . -.IK-, 
deserved.  Madam  Ory«eworth  wan  fi  lady  of  the  old  w  hool, — 
one  who  had  all  her  life,  h<-«-n  acru'-.tomed  t<»  tin-  he.-.t  r.ociety, 
-ind  who  rontinned,  in  Kpite  of  h«T  advanced  year;;,  to  e.njoy 
and  to  adorn  it.  She  was:  r.till  an  elegant  looking  woman,  tall 
and  f.tately  ;  ami  though  n  little,  proud,  and  to  «tranjM-i  .  a  little 
n-Mcrvd,  nlie  HOOII  jiroved  her-:elf  an  nj^reeahle  companion  to 
people  of  all  a^re.H.  I4"or  the  first  day  or  two  of  their  :i<vpiaint- 
ance,  pofir  MrH.  .leretny  ntood  inuc.li  in  awe  of  her,  ., nd  could 

lint    feel    ipnl.e.   at   e;i".e    III    lid     prer.enee  ,     hilt    thhl    feeling    WOT»1   off 

wonderfully  fjuie.k,  and  the  Htoilt  little  <loetor'n  lady  KOOH  h«-came, 
'Imjdy  conlidiri)^  and  r-.hatty  towardn  the  nugimt  dame. 

One  evening,  when  the  .JeremyH  had  now  IHJOTI  a  woek  at 
Saratoga,  an  Krnily  and  (iwrtrnde  w«-re  leaving  the  te.a-tahle, 
they  were  joined  hy  N'etta  (tryneworth,  who,  linking  ln-r  arm 
in  (Jertnide'n,  excl.ume.l  in  her  iif.ual  yay  manner,  "(iertrude, 
I  uliall  quarrel  with  you  HOOII  I" 

"Indeed!"  Baid  (iertrude,  "on  w)iat  ground?" 

"Jealousy." 

Gertrude   hluv.h«-d   uli^htly. 

"O!  you  needn't  turn  so  rod;  it  is  not  on  account  of  any 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  333 

gray-headed  gentleman's  staring  at  you  all  dinner  time,  from 
the  other  end  of  the  table.  No;  I  'm  indifferent  on  that  score* 
Ellen  and  you  may  disagree  about  Mr.  Phillips's  attentions,  but 
I  'm  jealous  of  those  of  another  person." 

"I  hope  Gertrude  isn't  interfering  with  your  happiness  in 
any  way,"  said  Emily  smiling. 

"She  is,  though,"  replied  Netta,  "my  happiness,  my  pride, 
my  comfort.  She  is  undermining  them  all;  she  would  not  dare 
to  conduct  so,  Miss  Graham,  if  you  could  see  her  behavior." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Emily  coaxingly,  "and  I  will 
promise  to  interest  myself  for  you." 

"I  doubt  that,"  answered  Netta;  "I  am  not  sure  but  you 
are  :i  coadjutor  with  her.  However,  1  will  state  my  grievance. 
IX)  you  not  see  how  entirely  she  engrosses  the  attention  of  an 
important  personage?  Are  you  not  aware  that  Peter  has  ceased 
to  have  eyes  for  any  one  else?  For  my  own  part,  1  can  get 
nothing  to  eat  or  drink  until  Miss  Flint  is  served,  and  1  'm 
determined  to  ask  papa  to  change  our  seats  at  the  table.  It 
is  n't  that  I  care  about  my  food ;  but  I  feel  insulted,  —  my 
pride  is  essentially  wounded.  A  few  days  ago  I  was  a  gnv.t 
favorite  with  Peter,  and  all  my  pet  dishes  were  sure  to  be 
placed  directly  in  front  of  me;  but  now  the  tune  is  changed, 
and  this  very  evening  I  saw  him  pass  Gertrude  the  blackber 
ries,  which  the  creature  knows  I  delight  in,  while  he  pushed 
a  dish  of  blues  towards  me  in  a  contemptuous  manner,  which 
seemed  to  imply,  '  Blueberries  are  good  enough  for  you,  miss!  ' 

"1  have  noticed  that  the  waiters  are  very  attentive  to  us," 
said  Emily  :  "do  you  suppose  Gertrude  has  been  secretly  brib 
ing  them  ?  " 

"She  says  not,"  replied  Notta.  "Didn't  you  tell  me  so 
yesterday,  Gertrude,  when  1  was  drawing  a  similar  comparison 
between  their  devotion  to  you  and  to  our  party?  Didn't  you 
tell  me  that  neither  the  doctor  nor  any  of  you  ever  gave  Peter 
a  cent?" 

"Certainly,"  answered  Gertrude ;  "his  attentions  are  all  vol 
untary;  but  1  attribute  them  entirely  to  Emily's  influence,  and 
Ins  desire  to  serve  her." 

"It's  no  such  thing!"  said  Notta,  emphasizing  her  remark 
by  a  mysterious  little  shake  of  the  head.  "It's  sorcery,  1  m 
sure  of  it;  yon  've  been  practising  the  black  art,  Gertrude,  and 
I  '11  warn  Peter  this  very  day." 


334  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

As  she  spoke,  they  reached  a  corner  of  the  drawing-roor& 
where  the  old  ladies  Gryseworth  and  Jeremy  were  sitting  upon 
a  sofa,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  while  Ellen,  who  had 
just  returned  from  a  drive  with  her  father,  stood  talking  with 
him  and  a  Mr.  Petrancourt,  who  had  that  evening  arrived  from 
New  York. 

The  ladies  on  the  sofa  made  room  for  Emily,  and  Netta  and 
Gertrude  seated  themselves  near  by.  Occasionally  Madam 
Gryseworth  cast  glances  of  annoyance  at  a  group  of  children 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  who  by  their  noisy  shouts  con 
tinually  interrupted  her  remarks,  and  prevented  her  understand 
ing  those  of  her  neighbor.  Gertrude's  attention  soon  became 
attracted  by  them  also  to  such  a  degree  that  she  did  not  hear 
more  than  half  of  the  lively  and  gay  sallies  of  wit  and  nonsense 
which  Netta  continued  to  pour  forth. 

"Do  go  and  play  with  those  children,  Gertrude,"  said  Netta, 
at  last;  "I  know  you  're  longing  to." 

"  I  'm  longing  to  stop  their  play ! ?>  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  an 
apparently  ill-natured  remark,  which  we  are  bound  to  explain. 
Some  half  dozen  gayly  and  fancifully  dressed  children,  whose 
mothers  were  scattered  about  on  the  piazzas,  and  whose  nurses 
were  at  supper,  had  collected  around  a  strange  little  new-comer, 
whom  they  were  subjecting  to  every  species  of  persecution. 
Her  clothes,  though  of  rich  material,  were  most  untidily  ar 
ranged,  and  appeared  somewhat  soiled  by  travelling.  Her  little 
black  silk  frock  (for  the  child  was  clad  in  mourning)  seemed  to 
be  quite  outgrown,  being  much  shorter  than  some  of  her  other 
garments,  and  her  whole  appearance  denoted  great  negligence 
on  the  part  of  her  parents  or  guardian.  When  Madam  Gryse 
worth' s  evident  disturbance  first  led  Gertrude  to  notice  the 
youthful  group,  this  little  girl  was  standing  in  their  midst, 
looking  wildly  about  her,  as  if  for  a  chance  to  escape;  but  this 
the  children  prevented,  and  continued  to  ply  her  with  ques 
tions,  each  of  which  called  forth  a  derisive  shout  from  all  but 
the  poor  little  object  of  attack,  who,  on  her  part,  looked  ready 
to  burst  into  tears.  Whether  the  scene  reminded  Gertrude  of 
some  of  her  own  experiences,  or  merely  touched  the  chord  of  a 
universal  spirit  of  sympathy  for  the  injured,  she  could  not  keep 
her  eyes  from  the  little  party ;  and  just  as  Netta  was  fairly 
launched  upon  one  of  her  favorite  topics,  —  namely,  Mr.  Phil 
lips  and  his  unaccountable  conduct,  — she  sprung  from  her  seat, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  335 

exclaiming,  "They  sha'n't  torment  that  child  so!"  and  hastily 
crossed  the  room  to  the  rescue. 

Netta  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  Gertrude's  excited  and 
enthusiastic  manner  of  starting  on  her  benevolent  errand,  and 
this,  together  with  the  unusual  circumstance  of  her  crossing  the 
large  and  crowded  room  hastily  and  alone,  drew  the  inquiries 
of  all  the  circle  whom  she  had  left,  and  during  her  absence  she 
unconsciously  became  the  subject  of  discussion  and  remark. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Netta  1 "  asked  Madam  Gryseworth. 
"Where  has  Gertrude  gone?" 

"To  offer  herself  as  a  champion,  grandmamma,  for  that  little 
rowdy-dowdy  looking  child." 

"Is  she  the  one  who  has  been  making  all  this  noise?" 

"No,  indeed,  but  I  believe  she  is  the  cause  of  it." 

"It  isn't  every  girl,"  remarked  Ellen,  "who  could  cross  a 
great  room  like  this  so  gracefully  as  Gertrude  can." 

"She  has  a  remarkably  good  figure,"  said  Madam  Gryse 
worth,  "and  knows  how  to  walk;  a  very  rare  accomplishment 
nowadays." 

"She  is  a  very  well-formed  girl,"  remarked  Dr.  Gryseworth, 
who  had  observed  Gertrude  attentively  as  she  crossed  the  room, 
and  now,  hearing  her  commented  upon,  turned  to  take  his  part 
in  the  criticism ;  "  but  the  true  secret  of  her  looking  so  com 
pletely  the  lady  lies  in  her  having  uncommon  dignity  of  char 
acter,  being  wholly  unconscious  of  observation  and  independent 
of  the  wish  to  attract  it,  and  therefore  simply  acting  herself. 
She  dresses  well,  too.  Ellen,  I  wish  you  would  imitate  Miss 
Flint's  style  of  dress;  nothing  could  be  in  better  taste." 

"Or  a  greater  saving  to  your  purse,  papa,"  whispered  Netta. 
"Gertrude  dresses  very  simply." 

"Miss  Flint's  style  of  dress  would  not  become  Miss  Gryse 
worth,"  said  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Petrancourt,  who  approached 
in  time  to  hear  the  doctor's  remark.  "Your  daughter,  sir,  is  a 
noble,  showy  looking  girl,  and  can  carry  off  a  great  deal  of  dress." 

"So  can  a  milliner's  doll,  Mrs.  Petrancourt.  However,  I 
suppose,  in  a  certain  sense,  you  are  right.  The  two  girls  are 
not  sufficiently  alike  to  resemble  each  other,  if  their  dresses 
were  matched  with  Chinese  exactness." 

"Kesemble  each  other!  You  surely  would  not  wish  to  see 
your  beautiful  daughter  the  counterpart  of  one  who  has  not 
half  her  attractions." 


336  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"Are  you  much  acquainted  with  Miss  Flint? " 

"Not  at  all;  but  Netta  pointed  her  out  to  me  at  the  tea 
table  as  being  a  particular  friend." 

"Then  you  must  excuse  me,  ma'am,  if  I  remark  that  it  is 
impossible  you  should  have  any  idea  of  her  attractions,  as  they 
certainly  do  not  lie  on  the  surface." 

"  You  confess,  then,  that  you  do  not  think  her  handsome, 
sir?" 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  never  thought  anything  about  it.  Ask 
Petrancourt;  he  is  an  acknowledged  judge;"  and  the  doctor 
bowed  in  a  flattering  manner  to  the  lady,  who  had  been  the 
belle  of  the  season  at  the  time  her  husband  paid  his  addresses 
to  her. 

"I  will,  when  I  can  get  a  chance;  but  he  is  standing  too 
near  the  blind  lady,  — Miss  Flint's  aunt,  is  she  not? " 

"Particular  friend;  not  her  aunt." 

This  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  a  low  voice,  that 
Emily  might  not  hear  it.  Others,  however,  were  either  more 
careless  or  more  indifferent  to  her  presence;  for  Madam  Gryse- 
worth  began  to  speak  of  Gertrude  without  restraint,  and  she 
was  at  this  moment  saying,  "One  must  see  her  under  peculiar 
circumstances  to  be  struck  with  her  beauty  at  once;  for  in 
stance,  as  I  did  yesterday,  when  she  had  just  returned  from 
horseback  riding,  and  her  face  was  in  a  glow  from  exercise  and 
excitement;  or  as  she  looks  when  animated  by  her  intense  in 
terest  in  some  glowing  and  eloquent  speaker,  or  when  her  feel 
ings  are  suddenly  touched,  and  the  tears  start  into  her  eyes, 
and  her  whole  soul  shines  out  through  them ! " 

"Why,  grandmamma!"  cried  Netta,  "you  are  really  elo 
quent  ! " 

"So  is  Gertrude,  at  such  times  as  those  I  speak  of.  0!  she 
is  a  girl  after  my  own  heart." 

"  She  must  be  a  very  agreeable  young  lady,  from  your  ac 
count,"  said  Mr.  Petrancourt.  "We  must  know  her." 

"  You  will  not  find  her  at  all  the  same  stamp  as  most  of  the 
agreeable  young  ladies  whom  you  meet  in  the  gay  circles.  I 
must  tell  you  what  Horace  Willard  said  of  her.  He  is  an  ac 
complished  man  and  a  scholar,  —  his  opinion  is  worth  some 
thing.  He  has  been  staying  a  fortnight  at  the  United  States 
Hotel,  and  used  to  call  here  occasionally,  to  see  us.  The  day 
he  left,  he  came  to  me  and  said,  *  Where  is  Miss  Flint  ?  I  must 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  337 

have  one  more  refreshing  conversation  with  her  before  I  go. 
It  is  a  perfect  rest  to  be  in  that  young  lady's  society,  for  she 
never  seems  to  be  making  the  least  effort  to  talk  with  me,  or 
to  expect  any  attempt  on  my  part;  she  is  one  of  the  few  girls 
who  never  speak  unless  they  have  something  to  say.'  How 
she  has  contrived  to  quiet  those  children ! " 

Mr.  Petrancourt  followed  the  direction  of  Madam  Gryse- 
worth's  eyes.  "Is  that  the  young  lady  you  are  speaking  of  ?  " 
asked  he.  "The  one  with  great  dark  eyes,  and  such  a  splen 
did  head  of  hair  ?  I  have  been  noticing  her  for  some  time. " 

"Yes,  that  is  she,  talking  to  the  little  girl  in  black." 

"Madam  Gryseworth,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  through  the  long 
open  window,  and  stepping  inside  as  he  spoke,  "I  see  you  ap 
preciate  our  Gerty ;  I  did  not  say  too  much  in  praise  of  her 
good  sense,  did  I  ?  " 

"Not  half  enough,  doctor;  she  is  a  very  bright  girl,  and  a 
very  good  one,  I  believe." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  doctor;  "I  didn't  know  that  good 
ness  counted  in  these  places;  but  if  goodness  is  worth  speak 
ing  of,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  a  little  of  what  I  know  of 
that  girl ;  "  and,  without  going  closely  into  particulars,  he  com 
menced  dilating  enthusiastically  upon  Gertrude's  noble  and  dis 
interested  conduct  under  trying  circumstances,  and,  warming 
with  his  subject,  had  recounted  in  a  touching  manner  her  de 
votion  to  one  old  paralytic,  —  to  another  infirm,  imbecile,  and 
ill-tempered  old  man,  and  his  slowly  declining  daughter,  and 
would  have  proceeded,  perhaps,  to  speak  of  her  recent  self-sac 
rificing  labors  in  Emily's  service;  but  Miss  Graham  touched 
his  arm,  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  interrupted  him. 

He  stopped  abruptly.  "Emily,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "I  beg 
your  pardon;  I  didn't  know  you  were  here;  but  what  you  say 
is  very  true.  Gertrude  is  a  private  character,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  bring  her  before  the  public.  I  am  an  old  fool,  cer 
tainly  ;  but  there,  we  are  all  friends. "  And  he  looked  around 
the  circle  a  little  anxiously,  cast  a  slightly  suspicious  glance  at 
the  Petrancourts,  and  finally  rested  his  gaze  upon  a  figure  di 
rectly  behind  Ellen  Gryseworth.  The  latter  turned,  not  having 
been  previously  aware  that  any  stranger  was  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  to  her  surprise  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Mr. 
Phillips! 

"Good-evening,  sir,"  said  she,  on  recognizing  him;  but  he 


338  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

did  not  seem  to  hear  her.     Madam  Gryseworth,  who  had  never 
seen  him  before,  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Ellen,  "shall  I  make  you  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Gryseworth,  my  — "  But,  before  she  could  com 
plete  the  introduction,  he  had  darted  quickly  through  the  win 
dow,  and  was  walking  across  the  piazza  with  hasty  strides.  He 
drew  forth  his  handkerchief,  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  brow, 
and  unseen  and  unsuspected  brushed  away  a  tear. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  339 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

It  was  not  thus  in  other  days  we  met: 

Hath  time,  hath  absence,  taught  thee  to  forget  ? 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

LATER  in  the  evening,  when  Gertrude,  having  resigned  her 
little  charge  to  the  nurse  who  came  to  seek  her,  had  again 
joined  her  party,  the  attention  of  every  one  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room  was  attracted  by  the  entrance  of  a  beautiful  and 
showily  dressed  young  lady,  attended  by  two  or  three  gentle 
men.  After  glancing  round  the  room  for  the  person  whom  she 
came  to  seek,  she  advanced  towards  Mrs.  Petrancourt,  who,  on 
her  part,  rose  to  receive  her  young  visitor.  Unexpected  as  the 
meeting  was  to  Gertrude,  she  at  once  recognized  Isabel  Clinton, 
who,  however,  passed  both  her  and  Emily  without  observing 
them,  and  there  being  no  vacant  chair  near  at  hand,  seated  herself 
with  Mrs.  Petrancourt  on  a  couch  a  little  further  up  the  room, 
and  entered  into  earnest  and  familiar  conversation ;  nor  did  she 
change  her  position  or  look  in  the  direction  of  Dr.  Jeremy's 
party,  until  just  as  she  was  taking  her  leave.  She  would  have 
passed  them  then  without  noticing  their  presence,  but  acciden 
tally  hearing  Dr.  Gryseworth  address  Miss  Flint  by  name,  she 
half  turned,  caught  Gertrude's  eye,  spoke  a  careless  "How  do 
you  do,"  with  that  sort  of  indifference  with  which  one  salutes 
a  very  slight  acquaintance,  cast  a  look  back  at  Emily,  surveyed 
with  an  impertinent  air  of  curiosity  the  rest  of  the  circle  to 
which  they  belonged,  and  without  stopping  to  exchange  words 
or  inquiries,  walked  off  whispering  to  her  companions  some 
satirical  comments  both  upon  the  place  and  the  company. 

"  0,  what  a  beauty ! "  exclaimed  Netta  to  Mrs.  Petrancourt. 
"Who  is  she?" 

Mrs.  Petrancourt  related  what  she  knew  of  Miss  Clinton; 
told  how  she  had  travelled  with  her  in  Switzerland,  and  met 
her  afterwards  in  Paris,  where  she  was  universally  admired; 
then,  turning  to  Gertrude,  she  remarked,  "  You  are  acquainted 
with  her,  I  see,  Miss  Flint." 


340  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Gertrude  replied  that  she  knew  her  before  she  went  abroad, 
but  had  seen  nothing  of  her  since  her  return. 

"She  has  but  just  arrived,"  said  Mrs.  Petrancourt;  "she 
came  with  her  father  in  the  last  steamer,  and  has  been  in  Sara 
toga  but  a  day  or  two.  She  is  making  a  great  sensation  at  the 
United  States,  I  hear,  and  has  troops  of  beaux." 

"Most  of  whom  are  probably  aware,"  remarked  Mr.  Petran 
court,  "that  she  will  have  plenty  of  money  one  of  these  days." 

Emily's  attention  was  by  this  time  attracted.  She  had  been 
conversing  with  Ellen  Gryseworth,  but  now  turned  to  ask  Ger 
trude  if  they  were  speaking  of  Isabel  Clinton. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  taking  upon  himself  to  reply,  "and 
if  she  were  not  the  rudest  girl  in  the  world,  my  dear,  you 
would  not  have  remained  so  long  in  ignorance  of  her  having 
been  here." 

Emily  forbore  to  make  any  comment.  It  did  not  surprise 
her  to  hear  that  the  Clintons  had  returned  home,  as  they  had 
separated  from  the  Grahams  soon  after  the  latter  went  abroad, 
and  she  had  since  heard  nothing  of  their  movements ;  nor  was 
she  astonished  at  any  degree  of  incivility  from  one  who  some 
times  seemed  ignorant  of  the  most  common  rules  of  politeness. 
Gertrude  was  silent  also ;  but  she  burned  inwardly,  as  she  always 
did,  at  any  slights  being  offered  to  the  gentle  Emily. 

Gertrude  and  Dr.  Jeremy  were  always  among  the  earliest 
morning  visitors  at  the  spring.  The  doctor  enjoyed  drinking 
the  water  at  this  hour;  and  as  Gertrude  was  an  early  riser  and 
fond  of  walking  before  breakfast,  he  made  it  a  point  that  she 
should  accompany  him,  partake  of  the  beverage  of  which  he 
was  himself  so  fond,  and  afterwards  join  him  in  brisk  pedes 
trian  exercise  until  near  the  hour  of  the  morning  meal,  which 
was  as  early  as  Mrs.  Jeremy  or  Emily  cared  to  have  their  slum 
bers  disturbed. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  the  evening  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking  they  had  as  usual  presented  themselves  at  the 
spring.  Gertrude  had  gratified  the  doctor,  and  made  a  martyr 
of  herself  by  imbibing  a  tumbler-full  of  a  water  which  she  found 
very  unpalatable ;  and  he  having  quaffed  his  seventh  glass,  they 
had  both  proceeded  some  distance  on  one  more  walk  around  the 
grounds,  when  he  suddenly  missed  his  cane,  and  believing  that 
he  had  left  it  at  the  spring,  declared  his  intention  to  return  and 
look  for  it 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  341 

Gertrude  would  have  gone  back  also,  but  as  there  might  be 
some  difficulty  and  delay  in  recovering  it,  he  insisted  upon  her 
continuing  her  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  circular  railway, 
promising  to  come  round  the  other  way  and  meet  her.  She  had 
proceeded  some  little  distance,  and  was  walking  thoughtfully 
along,  when  at  an  abrupt  winding  in  the  path  she  observed  a 
couple  approaching  her,  —  a  young  lady  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
a  gentleman.  A  straw  hat  partly  concealed  the  face  of  the 
latter,  but  in  the  former  she  at  once  recognized  Belle  Clinton. 
It  was  equally  evident,  too,  that  Belle  saw  Gertrude,  and  knew 
her,  but  did  not  mean  to  acknowledge  her  acquaintance ;  for, 
after  the  first  glance,  she  kept  her  eyes  obstinately  fixed  either 
upon  her  companion  or  the  ground.  This  conduct  did  not  dis 
turb  Gertrude  in  the  least;  Belle  could  not  feel  more  indiffer 
ent  about  the  acquaintance  than  she  did ;  but  being  thus  saved 
the  necessity  of  awaiting  and  returning  any  salutation  from  that 
quarter,  she  naturally  bestowed  her  passing  glance  upon  the 
gentleman  who  accompanied  Miss  Clinton.  He  looked  up  at 
the  same  instant,  fixed  his  full  gray  eyes  upon  her,  with  merely 
that  careless  look,  however,  with  which  one  stranger  regards 
another,  then  turning  as  carelessly  away,  made  some  slight  re 
mark  to  his  companion. 

They  pass  on.  They  have  gone  some  steps,  —  but  Gertrude 
stands  fixed  to  the  spot.  She  feels  a  great  throbbing  at  her 
heart.  She  knows  that  look,  that  voice,  as  well  as  if  she  had 
seen  and  heard  them  yesterday.  Could  Gertrude  forget  Willie 
Sullivan  ? 

But  he  has  forgotten  her.  Shall  she  run  after  him,  and  stop 
him,  and  catch  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  compel  him  to  see, 
and  know,  and  speak  to  her  ?  She  started  one  step  forward  in 
the  direction  he  had  taken,  then  suddenly  paused  and  hesitated. 
A  crowd  of  emotions  choked,  blinded,  suffocated  her,  and  while 
she  wrestled  with  them  and  they  with  her,  he  turned  the  corner 
and  passed  out  of  sight.  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
(always  her  first  impulse  in  moments  of  distress),  and  leaned 
against  a  tree. 

It  was  Willie.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that;  but  not  her 
Willie,  —  the  boy  Willie.  It  was  true,  time  had  added  but 
little  to  his  height  or  breadth  of  figure,  for  he  was  a  well-grown 
youth  when  he  went  away.  But  six  years  of  Eastern  life,  in 
cluding  no  small  amount  of  travel,  care,  exposure,  and  suffering, 


342  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

had  done  the  work  that  twice  that  time  would  ordinarily  have 
accomplished. 

The  fresh  complexion  of  the  boy  had  given  place  to  the  paler 
beard-darkened  and  somewhat  sun-browned  tints  that  mark  a 
ripened  manhood;  the  joyous  eye  had  a  deeper  cast  of  thought, 
the  elastic  step  a  more  firm  and  measured  tread;  while  the 
beaming,  sunny  expression  of  countenance  had  given  place  to 
a  certain  grave  and  composed  look,  which  marked  his  features 
when  in  repose. 

The  winning  attractiveness  of  the  boy,  however,  had  but 
given  place  to  equal,  if  not  superior  qualities  in  the  man,  who 
was  still  eminently  handsome,  and  gifted  with  that  inborn  and 
natural  grace  and  ease  of  deportment  which  win  universal  re 
mark  and  commendation.  The  broad,  open  forehead,  the  lines 
of  mild  but  firm  decision  about  the  mouth,  the  frank,  fearless 
manner,  were  as  marked  as  ever,  and  were  alone  sufficient  to 
betray  his  identity  to  one  upon  whose  memory  these,  and  all 
his  other  characteristics  were  indelibly  stamped;  and  Gertrude 
needed  not  the  sound  of  his  well-known  voice,  though  that,  too, 
at  the  same  moment  fell  upon  her  ear,  to  proclaim  at  once  to 
her  beating  heart  that  Willie  Sullivan  had  met  her  face  to  face, 
had  passed  on,  and  that  she  was  left  alone,  unrecognized,  un 
known,  and  to  all  appearance  unthought  of  and  uncared  for ! 

For  a  time,  this  bitter  thought,  "He  does  not  know  me," 
was  alone  present  to  her  mind;  it  filled  and  engrossed  her  en 
tire  imagination,  and  sent  a  thrill  of  surprise  and  agony  through 
her  whole  frame.  She  did  not  stop  to  reflect  upon  the  fact  that 
she  was  but  a  child  when  she  parted  from  him,  and  that  the 
change  in  her  appearance  must  be  immense.  Far  less  did  it 
occur  to  her  to  congratulate  herself  upon  a  transformation  every 
shade  of  which  had  been  to  her  a  proportionate  improvement 
and  advantage.  The  one  painful  idea,  that  she  was  forgotten 
and  lost,  as  it  were,  to  the  dear  friend  of  her  childhood,  oblit 
erated  every  other  recollection.  Had  they  both  been  children, 
as  in  the  earlier  days  of  their  brother-and-sisterhood,  it  would 
have  been  easy  and  but  natural  to  dart  forward,  overtake,  and 
claim  him.  But  time,  in  the  changes  it  had  wrought,  had  built 
up  a  huge  barrier  between  them.  Gertrude  was  a  woman  now, 
with  all  a  woman's  pride;  and  delicacy  and  maiden  modesty 
deterred  her  from  the  course  which  impulse  and  old  affection 
prompted.  Other  feelings,  too,  soon  crowded  into  her  mind. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  343 

in  confused  and  mingled  array.  Why  was  Willie  here,  and 
with  Isabel  Clinton  leaning  on  his  arm  ?  How  came  he  on  this 
side  the  ocean?  and  how  happened  it  that  he  had  not  immedi 
ately  sought  herself,  the  earliest,  and,  as  she  had  supposed, 
almost  the  only  friend  he  had  left  to  welcome  him  back  to  his 
native  land?  Why  had  he  not  written  and  warned  her  of  his 
coming?  How  should  she  account  for  his  strange  silence,  and 
the  still  stranger  circumstance  of  his  hurrying  at  once  to  the 
haunts  of  fashion,  without  once  visiting  the  city  of  his  birth 
and  the  sister  of  his  adoption  ? 

Question  after  question,  and  doubt  following  doubt,  rushed 
into  her  mind  so  confusedly,  that  she  could  not  reflect,  could 
not  come  to  any  conclusion  in  the  matter.  She  could  only  feel 
and  weep;  and  giving  way  to  her  overpowering  emotion,  she 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Poor  child !  It  was  so  different  a  meeting  from  what  she 
had  imagined  and  expected !  For  the  six  years  that  she  had 
been  growing  into  womanhood,  it  had  been  the  dream  of  her 
waking  hours,  and  had  come  as  a  beautiful  though  transient 
reality  to  her  happy  sleep.  He  could  hardly  have  presented 
himself  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  scarcely  in  any  disguise, 
that  would  not  have  been  foreseen  and  anticipated.  He  could 
have  used  no  form  of  greeting  that  had  not  already  rung  in  the 
ears  of  her  fancy ;  he  could  bestow  upon  her  no  look  that  would 
not  be  familiar.  What  Willie  would  say  when  he  first  saw  her, 
what  he  would  do  to  express  his  delight,  the  questions  he  would 
ask,  the  exclamations  he  would  utter,  and  the  corresponding 
replies  on  her  part,  the  happiness  of  them  both  (lately  sobered 
and  subdued  to  her  imagination  by  the  thought  of  the  dear  de 
parted  ones  they  had  both  loved  so  well),  —  all  this  had  been 
rehearsed  by  Gertrude  again  and  again,  in  every  new  instance  tak 
ing  some  new  form,  or  varied  by  some  additional  circumstance. 

But  among  all  her  visions,  there  had  been  none  which  in 
the  least  approached  the  reality  of  this  painful  experience  that 
had  suddenly  plunged  her  into  disappointment  and  sorrow.  Her 
darkest  dreams  had  never  pictured  a  meeting  so  chilling;  her 
most  fearful  forebodings  (and  she  had  of  late  had  many)  had 
never  prefigured  anything  so  heart-rending  as  this  seemingly 
total  annihilation  of  all  the  sweet  and  cherished  relations  that 
had  subsisted  between  herself  and  the  long-absent  and  exiled 
wanderer. 


344  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

No  wonder,  then,  that  she  forgot  the  place,  the  time,  every 
thing  but  her  own  overwhelming  grief;  and  that,  as  she  stood 
leaning  against  the  old  tree,  her  chest  heaved  with  sobs  too 
deep  for  utterance,  and  great  tears  trickled  from  her  eyes,  and 
between  the  little  taper  fingers  that  vainly  sought  to  hide  her 
disturbed  countenance. 

She  was  startled  from  her  position  by  the  sound  of  an  ap 
proaching  footstep.  Hastily  starting  forward,  without  looking 
in  the  direction  from  which  it  came,  and  throwing  a  lace  veil 
(which,  as  the  day  was  warm,  was  the  only  protection  she  wore 
upon  her  head)  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hide  her  face,  she  wiped 
away  her  fast-flowing  tears,  and  hastened  on,  to  avoid  being 
overtaken  and  observed  by  any  of  the  numerous  strangers  who 
frequented  the  grounds  at  this  hour. 

Half  blinded,  however,  by  the  thick  folds  of  the  veil,  and 
her  sight  rendered  still  dimmer  by  the  tears  which  continued  to 
fill  her  eyes,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  unsteady  course 
she  was  pursuing,  when  suddenly  a  loud,  whizzing  noise,  close 
to  her  ears,  frightened  and  confused  her  so  that  she  knew  not 
which  way  to  turn ;  nor  had  she  time  to  take  a  single  step ;  for 
at  the  same  instant  an  arm  was  suddenly  flung  round  her  waist, 
she  was  forcibly  lifted  from  her  feet  with  as  much  ease  and 
lightness  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and  before  she  was 
conscious  what  was  taking  place,  found  herself  detained  and 
supported  by  the  same  strong  arm,  while  just  in  front  of  her 
a  little  hand-car  containing  two  persons  was  whirling  by  at  full 
speed.  One  step  more,  and  she  would  have  reached  the  track 
of  the  miniature  railway,  and  been  exposed  to  serious,  perhaps 
fatal  injury,  from  the  rapidly  moving  vehicle.  Flinging  back 
her  veil,  she  at  once  perceived  her  fortunate  escape;  and  being 
at  the  same  moment  released  from  the  firm  grasp  of  her  rescuer, 
she  turned  upon  him  a  half -confused,  half-grateful  face,  whose 
disturbed  expression  was  much  enhanced  by  her  previous  ex 
citement  and  tears. 

Mr.  Phillips  —  for  it  was  he  —  looked  upon  her  in  the  most 
tender  and  pitying  manner.  "  Poor  child ! "  said  he  sooth 
ingly,  at  the  same  time  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  "you 
were  very  much  frightened.  Here,  sit  down  upon  this  bench ; " 
and  he  would  have  drawn  her  towards  a  seat,  but  she  shook  her 
head,  and  signified  by  a  movement  her  wish  to  proceed  towards 
the  hotel.  She  could  not  speak;  the  kindness  of  his  look  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  345 

voice  only  served  to  increase  her  trouble,  and  rob  her  of  the 
power  to  articulate. 

So  he  walked  on  in  perfect  silence,  supporting  her,  however, 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  bestowing  upon  her  many  an  anx 
ious  glance.  At  last,  making  a  great  effort  to  recover  her  calm 
ness,  she  partially  succeeded,  —  so  much  so  that  he  ventured  to 
speak  again,  and  asked,  "  Did  /  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  You  ? "  replied  she,  in  a  low  and  somewhat  unsteady  voice. 
"0,  no!  you  are  very  kind." 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  so  disturbed,"  said  he;  "those  little 
.cars  are  troublesome  things;  I  wish  they  'd  put  a  stop  to  them." 

"The  car?"  said  Gertrude  in  an  absent  way.  "0,  yes,  I 
forgot." 

"You  are  a  little  nervous,  I  fear.  Can't  you  get  Dr.  Jeremy 
to  prescribe  for  you  ?  " 

"The  doctor!     He  went  back  for  his  cane,  I  believe." 

Mr.  Phillips  saw  that  she  was  bewildered,  obtuse  he  knew 
she  never  was;  for  within  the  last  few  days  his  acquaintance 
•with  her  had  grown  and  ripened  by  frequent  intercourse.  He 
forbore  any  attempt  at  conversation,  and  they  continued  their 
walk  to  the  hotel  without  another  word.  Just  before  leaving 
her,  however,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  interest,  as  he 
held  her  hand  for  a  moment  at  parting,  "  Can  I  do  anything 
for  you  ?  Can  I  help  you  ?  " 

Gertrude  looked  up  at  him.  She  saw  at  once,  from  his  coun 
tenance,  that  he  understood  and  realized  that  she  was  unhappy, 
not  nervous.  Her  eyes  thanked  him  as  they  again  glistened 
behind  a  shower  of  tears.  "No,  no,"  gasped  she,  "but  you  are 
very  good ; "  and  she  hastened  into  the  house,  leaving  him  stand 
ing  for  more  than  a  minute  in  the  spot  where  she  had  left  him, 
gazing  at  the  door  by  which  she  had  disappeared,  as  if  she  were 
still  in  sight,  and  he  were  watching  her. 

Gertrude's  first  thought,  after  parting  from  Mr.  Phillips  and 
gaming  the  shelter  of  the  hotel,  was  how  she  might  best  conceal 
from  all  her  friends,  and  especially  from  Miss  Graham,  any  know 
ledge  of  the  load  of  grief  she  was  sustaining.  That  she  would 
receive  sympathy  and  comfort  from  Emily  there  could  be  no 
doubt;  but  in  proportion  as  she  loved  and  respected  her  bene 
factress,  did  she  shrink,  with  jealous  sensitiveness,  from  any 
disclosure  which  was  calculated  to  lessen  Willie  Sullivan  in  the 
estimation  of  one  in  whose  opinion  she  was  anxious  that  he  should 


846  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

sustain  the  high  place  to  which  her  own  praises  had  exalted 
him. 

The  chief  knowledge  that  Emily  had  of  Willie  was  derived 
from  Gertrude,  and  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  tenderness  for  him 
and  pride  on  her  own  account  did  the  latter  dread  to  disclose 
the  fact  that  he  had  returned  after  so  many  years  of  absence, 
that  she  had  met  him  in  the  public  walks  of  Saratoga,  and  that 
he  had  passed  her  carelessly  by. 

The  possibility  naturally  presented  itself  to  her  mind  that  he 
had  indeed  visited  Boston,  sought  her,  and  learning  where  she 
might  be  found,  had  come  hither  purposely  to  see  her;  nor,  on 
calm  reflection,  did  this  supposition  seem  contradicted  by  his 
failing,  on  a  mere  casual  glance,  to  recognize  her;  for  she  could 
not  be  ignorant  or  insensible  of  the  vast  change  which  had  taken 
place  both  in  her  face  and  figure.  But  the  ray  of  hope  which 
this  thought  called  up  was  quickly  dissipated  by  the  recollection 
of  a  letter  received  the  previous  evening  from  Mrs.  Ellis  (now 
acting  as  housekeeper  at  Dr.  Jeremy's),  which  would  certainly 
have  mentioned  the  arrival  of  so  important  a  visitor.  There 
was,  however,  the  still  further  possibility  that  this  arrival  might 
have  taken  place  since  the  date  of  Mrs.  Ellis 's  concise  epistle, 
and  that  Willie  might  have  but  just  reached  his  destination, 
and  not  yet  had  time  to  discover  her  temporary  place  of  abode. 
Though  the  leisurely  manner  in  which  he  was  escorting  Miss 
Clinton  on  her  morning  walk  seemed  to  contradict  the  supposi 
tion,  Gertrude,  clinging  fondly  to  this  frail  hope,  and  believing 
that  the  rest  of  the  day  would  not  pass  without  his  presenting 
himself  at  the  hotel,  determined  to  concentrate  all  her  energies 
in  the  effort  to  maintain  her  usual  composure,  at  least  until  her 
fears  should  become  certainties. 

It  was  very  hard  for  her  to  appear  as  usual,  and  elude  the 
vigilance  of  the  affectionate  and  careful  Emily,  who,  always  deeply 
conscious  of  her  responsibility  towards  her  young  charge,  and 
fearful  lest,  owing  to  her  blindness,  she  might  even  be  an  insuffi 
cient  protection  to  one  of  so  ardent  and  excitable  a  temperament, 
was  keenly  alive  to  every  sensation  and  emotion  experienced  by 
Gertrude,  especially  to  any  fluctuation  in  her  usually  cheerful 
spirits. 

And  Gertrude's  spirits,  even  when  she  had  armed  herself 
with  confidence  and  hope  by  the  encouraging  thought  that  Wil 
lie  would  yet  prove  faithful  to  his  old  friendship,  could  not  but 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  847 

be  sorely  depressed  by  the  consciousness  now  forced  upon  her 
that  he  could  no  longer  be  to  her  as  he  had  once  been ;  that  they 
could  never  meet  on  the  same  footing  on  which  they  had  parted ; 
that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world  now,  with  new  relations,  new 
cares,  new  interests;  and  that  she  had  been  deceiving  herself, 
and  laboring  under  a  fond  delusion,  in  cherishing  the  belief 
that  in  their  case  the  laws  of  nature  would  be  suspended,  and 
time  have  no  power  to  alter  or  modify  the  nature  and  extent  of 
their  mutual  affection.  There  was  something  in  the  very  cir 
cumstance  of  her  first  meeting  him  in  company  with  Isabel 
Clinton  which  tended  to  impress  her  with  this  conviction. 
Isabel,  of  all  people,  one  so  essentially  worldly,  and  with  whom 
she  had  so  little  sympathy  or  congeniality !  True,  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Willie's  early  and  generous  employer,  now  the  sen 
ior  partner  in  the  mercantile  house  to  which  he  belonged,  and 
would  not  only  be  likely  to  form  his  acquaintance,  but  would 
have  an  undoubted  claim  to  every  polite  attention  he  might  have 
it  in  his  power  to  pay  her ;  but  still  Gertrude  could  not  but  feel 
a  greater  sense  of  estrangement,  a  chilling  presentiment  of  sor 
row,  from  seeing  him  thus  familiarly  associated  with  one  who 
had  invariably  treated  her  with  scorn  and  incivility. 

There  was  but  one  thing  for  her  to  do,  however;  to  call  up 
all  her  self-command,  bring  pride  even  to  her  aid,  and  endeavor, 
in  any  event,  to  behave  with  serenity  and  composure.  The 
very  fear  that  one  keen  and  searching  pair  of  eyes  had  already 
penetrated  her  secret  so  far  as  to  discover  that  she  was  afflicted 
in  some  form  or  other  served  to  put  her  still  more  upon  her 
guard;  and  she  therefore  compelled  herself  to  enter  the  room 
where  Emily  was  awaiting  her,  bid  her  a  cheerful  "good-morn 
ing,"  and  assist,  as  usual,  in  the  completion  of  her  toilet.  Her 
face  still  bore  indications  of  recent  tears ;  but  that  Emily  could  not 
see,  and  by  breakfast  time  even  they  were  effectually  removed. 

Now,  again,  new  trials  awaited  her ;  for  Dr.  Jeremy,  accord 
ing  to  his  promise,  had,  after  recovering  the  missing  cane,  gone 
to  meet  her  in  the  direction  agreed  upon,  and  finding  her  false 
to  her  appointment,  and  nowhere  to  be  found  among  the  grounds, 
was  full  of  inquiries  as  to  the  path  she  had  taken,  and  her  rea 
sons  for  giving  him  the  slip. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  recollected  the  doctor's  promise 
to  rejoin  her,  and  the  stipulation  that  she  should  proceed  in 
the  path  she  was  then  following ;  but  having,  until  these  ques- 


348  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

tions  were  put  to  her,  quite  forgotten  the  old  gentleman,  she 
was  unprepared  for  a  reply,  blushed,  and  became  very  much 
confused.  The  truth  was  that  when  Gertrude  heard  Mr.  Phil 
lips  approaching  in  the  direction  she  should  have  taken,  she, 
in  her  eagerness  to  avoid  meeting  any  one,  took  the  contrary 
path  to  that  she  had  been  pursuing,  and  after  he  joined  her, 
retraced  her  steps  to  the  hotel  in  the  same  way  she  had  come, 
consequently  eluding  the  search  of  the  doctor. 

But  before  she  could  plead  any  excuse,  Netta  Gryseworth 
came  running  up,  evidently  full  of  pleasantry  and  fun,  and  lean 
ing  over  Gertrude's  shoulder,  said,  in  a  whisper  loud  enough  to 
be  heard  by  all  the  little  circle,  who  were  being  delayed  on  their 
way  to  breakfast  by  the  doctor's  demand  for  an  explanation, 
"  Gertrude,  my  dear,  such  affecting  partings  ought  to  be  private. 
I  wonder  you  allow  them  to  take  place  directly  at  the  doorstep." 
,This  remark  did  not  lessen  Gertrude's  discomfiture,  which 
became  extreme  on  Dr.  Jeremy's  catching  Netta  by  the  arm  as 
she  was  about  to  run  off,  and  insisting  upon  knowing  her  mean 
ing,  declaring  that  he  already  had  suspicions  of  Gertrude,  and 
wanted  to  know  who  she  had  been  walking  with. 

"  0,  a  certain  tall  young  beau  of  hers,  who  stood  gazing  after 
her  when  she  left  him,  until  I  began  to  fear  the  cruel  creature 
had  turned  him  into  stone.  What  did  you  do  to  the  poor  man, 
Gertrude  1 " 

" Nothing,"  replied  Gertrude.  "He  saved  me  from  being 
thrown  down  by  the  little  rail-car,  and  afterwards  walked  home 
with  me." 

Gertrude  answered  seriously;  she  could  have  laughed  and 
joked  with  Netta  at  any  other  time,  but  now  her  heart  was  too 
heavy.  The  doctor  did  not  perceive  her  growing  agitation, 
however,  and  pushed  the  matter  still  further. 

"Quite  romantic!  imminent  danger!  providential  rescue! 
tete-a-tete  walk  home,  carefully  avoiding  the  old  doctor,  who 
might  prove  an  interruption !  I  understand !  " 

Poor  Gertrude,  blushing  scarlet  and  pitiably  distressed,  tried 
to  offer  some  explanation,  and  stammered  out,  with  a  faltering 
voice,  that  she  did  not  notice  —  she  did  n't  remember. 

Ellen  Gryseworth  gave  her  a  scrutinizing  glance,  Emily  an 
anxious  one,  and  Netta,  half  pitying,  half  enjoying  her  confusion, 
dragged  her  off  towards  the  breakfast  hall,  saying,  "Never  mind, 
Gertrude;  it 's  no  such  dreadful  thing,  after  all." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  349 

She  made  a  pretence  of  eating  breakfast,  but  could  not  con 
ceal  her  want  of  appetite,  and  was  glad,  when  Emily  had  fin 
ished  her  light  repast,  to  accompany  her  to  their  own  room, 
where  after  relating  circumstantially  her  escape  from  accident, 
and  Mr.  Phillips' s  agency  in  that  escape,  she  was  permitted  by 
her  apparently  satisfied  hearer  to  sit  down  quietly  and  read  aloud 
to  her  in  a  book  lent  them  by  that  gentleman,  to  whom,  how 
ever,  owing  to  unfriendly  fortune,  no  opportunity  had  ever  yet 
occurred  of  introducing  Ernily. 

The  whole  morning  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard  from 
Willie.  Every  time  a  servant  passed  through  the  entry,  Ger 
trude  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation ;  and  on  occasion  of  a  tap 
at  the  door,  such  as  occurred  several  times  before  dinner,  she 
trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  lift  the  latch.  There  was  no 
summons  to  the  parlor,  however,  and  by  noon  the  feverish  ex 
citement  of  alternate  expectation  and  disappointment  had  brought 
a  deep  flush  into  her  face,  and  she  experienced,  what  was  very 
unusual,  symptoms  of  a  severe  headache.  Conscious,  however, 
of  the  wrong  construction  which  would  be  sure  to  be  put  upon 
her  conduct,  if  upon  any  plea  whatever  she  on  this  day  absented 
herself  from  the  dinner  table,  she  made  the  effort  to  dress  with 
as  much  care  as  usual ;  and  as  she  passed  up  the  hall  to  her  seat, 
it  was  not  strange  that,  though  suffering  herself,  the  rich  glov? 
that  mantled  her  cheeks,  and  the  brilliancy  which  excitement 
had  given  to  her  dark  eyes,  attracted  the  notice  of  others  beside 
Mr.  Phillips,  who,  seated  at  some  distance,  continued,  during 
the  short  time  that  he  remained  at  the  table,  to  observe  her 
attentively. 


350  THE  LAMFLIGHTEB 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

O'er  the  wrung  heart,  from  midnight's  breathless  sky, 
Lone  looks  the  pity  of  the  Eternal  Eye. 

NEW  TIMON. 

WHEN  Gertrude  went  to  her  room  after  dinner,  which  she 
did  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  Eniily  comfortably  established  in 
the  drawing-room  in  conversation  with  Madam  Gryseworth,  she 
found  there  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  the  choicest  flowers,  which 
the  chamber-maid  assured  her  she  had  been  commissioned  to 
deliver  to  herself.  She  rightly  imagined  the  source  from  whence 
they  came,  divined  at  once  the  motives  of  kindness  and  sympa 
thy  which  had  prompted  the  donor  of  so  sweet  and  acceptable 
a  gift,  and  felt  that,  if  she  must  accept  pity  from  any  quarter, 
Mr.  Phillips  was  one  from  whom  she  could  more  easily  bear  to 
receive  it  than  from  almost  any  other. 

Notwithstanding  Netta's  intimations,  she  did  not  for  a  mo 
ment  suspect  that  any  other  motives  than  those  of  kindness  and 
compassion  had  instigated  the  offering  of  the  beautiful  flowers. 
Nor  had  she  reason  to  do  so;  Mr.  Phillips's  manner  towards  her 
was  rather  fatherly  than  lover-like,  and  though  she  began  to 
look  upon  him  as  a  valuable  friend,  that  was  the  only  light  in 
which  she  had  ever  thought  of  viewing  him,  or  believed  that 
he  ever  regarded  her.  She  placed  the  flowers  in  water,  returned 
to  the  parlor,  and  constrained  herself  to  talk  on  indifferent  sub 
jects,  until  she  was  happily  relieved  by  the  breaking  up  of  their 
circle,  part  to  ride  on  horseback,  part  to  take  a  drive,  and  the 
rest  a  nap.  Among  these  last  was  Gertrude,  who  availed  her 
self  of  her  headache  as  an  excuse  to  Emily  for  this  unwonted 
indulgence.  But  she  could  not  sleep,  and  the  day  wore  wea 
rily  on. 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  with  it  an  urgent  invitation  to 
Gertrude  to  accompany  Dr.  Gryseworth,  his  daughters,  and  the 
Petrancourts  to  a  concert  to  be  given  at  the  United  States 
Hotel.  This  she  declined  doing,  and  persisted  in  her  refusal, 
in  spite  of  every  endeavor  to  shake  her  resolution.  She  felt 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  351 

that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  undergo  another  such 
encounter  as  that  of  the  morning,  —  she  should  be  sure  to  be 
tray  herself;  and  now  that  the  whole  day  had  passed,  and  Wil 
lie  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  her,  she  felt  that  she  would  not, 
for  the  world,  put  herself  in  his  way,  arid  run  the  risk  of  being 
discovered  and  recognized  by  him  in  a  crowded  concert  room. 
No,  she  would  wait;  she  should  see  him  soon,  at  the  latest, 
and  under  the  present  circumstances  she  should  not  know  how 
to  meet  him ;  she  would  preserve  her  incognito  a  little  longer. 

So  they  all  went  without  her,  and  many  others  from  their 
hotel ;  and  the  parlor,  being  half  deserted,  was  very  quiet,  —  a 
great  relief  to  Gertrude's  aching  head  and  troubled  mind.  Later 
in  the  evening,  an  elderly  man,  a  clergyman,  had  been  intro 
duced  to  Emily,  and  was  talking  with  her;  Madam  Gryseworth 
and  Dr.  Jeremy  were  entertaining  each  other,  Mrs.  Jeremy  was 
nodding,  and  Gertrude,  believing  that  she  should  not  be  missed, 
was  gliding  out  of  the  room  to  go  and  sit  awhile  by  herself  in 
the  moonlight,  when  she  met  Mr.  Phillips  in  the  hall. 

"  What  are  you  here  all  alone  for  ?  "  asked  he.  "  Why  did  n't 
you  go  to  the  concert  ? " 

"I  have  a  headache." 

'  *  I  saw  you  had  at  dinner.     Is  it  no  better  ?  " 

"No.     I  believe  not." 

"  Come  and  walk  with  me  on  the  piazza  a  little  while.  It 
will  do  you  good." 

She  went;  and  he  talked  very  entertainingly  to  her,  told 
her  a  great  many  amusing  anecdotes,  succeeded  in  making  her 
smile,  and  even  laugh,  and  seemed  very  much  pleased  at  having 
done  so.  He  related  many  amusing  things  he  had  seen  and 
heard  since  he  had  been  staying  at  Saratoga  in  the  character  of 
a  spectator,  and  ended  by  asking  her  if  she  did  n't  think  it  was 
a  heartless  show. 

The  question  took  Gertrude  by  surprise.  She  asked  his 
meaning. 

"Don't  you  think  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  so 
many  thousand  people  coming  here  to  enjoy  themselves  1 " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Gertrude;  "but  it  has  not  seemed 
so  to  me.  I  think  it 's  an  excellent  thing  for  those  who  do 
enjoy  themselves." 

"And  how  many  do'" 

"The  greater  part,  I  suppose." 


352  THE    LAMPLIGHTER 

"Pshaw!  no,  they  don't.  More  than  half  go  away  misera 
ble,  and  nearly  all  the  rest  dissatisfied." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Now,  I  thought  the  charm  of  the  place 
was  seeing  so  many  happy  faces;  they  have  nearly  all  looked 
happy  to  me." 

"0,  that's  all  on  the  surface,  and  if  you'll  notice,  those 
who  look  happy  one  day  are  wretched  enough  the  next.  Yours 
was  one  of  the  happy  faces  yesterday,  but  it  is  n't  to-day,  my 
poor  child." 

Then,  perceiving  that  his  remark  caused  the  hand  which 
rested  on  his  arm  to  tremble,  while  the  eyes  which  had  been 
attentively  raised  to  his  suddenly  fell,  and  hid  themselves  under 
their  long  lashes,  he  continued:  "However,  we  will  trust  soon 
to  see  it  as  bright  as  ever.  But  they  should  not  have  brought 
you  here.  Catskill  Mountain  was  a  fitter  place  for  your  lively 
imagination  and  reflecting  mind;  a  sensitive  nature  should  not 
be  exposed  to  all  the  shafts  of  malice,  envy,  and  ill-will  it  is 
sure  to  encounter  in  one  of  these  crowded  resorts  of  selfish,  base, 
and  cruel  humanity." 

"  0 ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  at  once  comprehending  that  Mr. 
Phillips  suspected  her  to  be  smarting  under  some  neglect,  feel 
ing  of  wounded  pride,  or  perhaps  serious  injury;  "you  speak 
harshly ;  all  are  not  selfish,  all  are  not  unkind. " 

"Ah !  you  are  young,  and  full  of  faith;  trust  whom  you  can, 
and  as  long  as  you  can.  /trust  no  one." 

"No  one!  Is  there  none,  then,  in  the  whole  world  whom 
you  love  and  confide  in  ?  " 

"Scarcely;  certainly  not  more  than  one.  Whom  should  I 
trust  ? " 

"The  good,  the  pure,  the  truly  great." 

"  And  who  are  they  1  How  shall  we  distinguish  them  1  I 
tell  you,  my  young  friend,  that  in  my  experience  —  and  it  has 
been  rich,  ay,  very  rich, "  —  and  he  set  his  teeth  and  spoke 
with  bitterness,  —  "  the  so-called  good,  the  honorable,  the  up 
right  man,  has  proved  but  the  varnished  hypocrite,  the  highly 
finished  and  polished  sinner.  Yes,"  continued  he,  his  voice 
growing  deeper,  his  manner  more  excited  as  he  spoke,  "  I  can 
think  of  one,  a  respectable  man,  one  of  your  first  men,  yes,  and 
a  church  member,  whose  hardness,  injustice,  and  cruelty  made 
my  life  what  it  has  been  —  a  desert,  a  blank  or  worse  than  that , 
and  I  can  think  of  another,  an  old,  rough,  intemperate  sailor, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  353 

over  whose  head  a  day  never  passed  that  he  did  not  take  the 
name  of  his  God  in  vain,  who  had,  nevertheless,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  a  drop  of  such  pure,  unsullied  essence  of  virtue  as 
could  not  be  distilled  from  the  souls  of  ten  thousand  of  your 
polished  rogues.  Which,  then,  shall  I  trust,  —  the  good,  re 
ligious  men,  or  the  low,  profane,  and  abject  ones? " 

"Trust  in  goodness,  wherever  it  be  found,"  answered  Ger 
trude.  "But,  0,  trust  all,  rather  than  none." 

"Your  world,  your  religion,  draws  a  closer  line." 

"Call  it  not  my  world,  or  my  religion,"  said  Gertrude.  "I 
know  of  no  such  line.  I  know  of  no  religion  but  that  of  the 
heart.  Christ  died  for  us  all  alike,  and  since  few  souls  are  so 
sunk  in  sin  that  they  do  not  retain  some  spark  of  virtue  and 
truth,  who  shall  say  in  how  many  a  light  will  at  last  spring  up, 
by  aid  of  which  they  may  find  their  way  to  God  1 " 

"You  are  a  good  child,  and  full  of  hope  and  charity,"  said 
Mr.  Phillips,  pressing  her  arm  closely  to  his  side.  "I  will  try 
and  have  faith  in  you.  But,  see !  our  friends  have  returned 
from  the  concert.  Let  us  go  and  meet  them." 

They  had  had  a  delightful  time ;  Alboni  had  excelled  herself 
and  they  were  so  sorry  Gertrude  did  not  go.  "But  perhaps," 
whispered  Netta,  "you  have  enjoyed  yourself  more  at  home." 
She  half  repented  of  the  sly  intimation,  even  before  the  words 
had  escaped  her;  for  Gertrude,  as  she  stood  leaning  unconcern 
edly  upon  Mr.  Phillips's  arm,  looked  so  innocent  of  confusion 
or  embarrassment,  that  her  very  manner  refuted  Netta' s  sus 
picions. 

"Miss  Clinton  was  there,"  continued  Netta,  "and  looked 
beautifully.  She  had  a  crowd  of  gentlemen  about  her;  but 
did  n't  you  notice  "  (and  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Petrancourt)  "that 
one  seemed  to  meet  with  such  marked  favor  that  I  wonder  the 
rest  were  not  discouraged.  I  mean  that  tall,  handsome  young 
man,  who  waited  upon  her  into  the  hall,  and  went  out  soon  after. 
She  devoted  herself  to  him  while  he  stayed." 

"It  was  the  same  one,  was  it  not,"  asked  Ellen,  "who  after 
wards,  towards  the  close  of  the  concert,  came  in  and  stood  lean 
ing  against  the  wall  for  some  minutes  ? " 

"Yes,"  answered  Netta;  "but  he  only  waited  for  Alboni  to 
finish  singing,  and  then  approaching  Miss  Clinton,  leaned  over 
and  whispered  a  word  or  two  in  her  ear.  After  that  she  got 
up,  left  her  seat,  and  they  both  went  off,  rather  to  the  mortifi- 


354  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

cation  of  the  other  gentlemen.  I  noticed  them  pass  by  the 
window  where  we  sat,  and  walk  across  the  grounds  together." 

"Yes,  just  in  the  midst  of  that  beautiful  piece  from  Lucia," 
said  Ellen.  "How  could  they  go  away  ?  " 

"O,  it  is  not  strange,  under  the  circumstances,"  said  Mr. 
Petrancourt,  "that  Miss  Clinton  should  prefer  a  walk  with  Mr. 
Sullivan  to  the  best  music  in  the  world." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Netta.  "Is  he  very  agreeable ?  Is  he  sup 
posed  to  be  the  favored  one  ? " 

"I  should  think  there  was  no  doubt  of  it,"  answered  Mr. 
Petrancourt.  "I  believe  it  is  generally  thought  to  be  an  en 
gagement.  He  was  in  Paris  with  them  during  the  spring,  and 
they  all  came  home  in  the  same  steamer.  Everybody  knows  it 
is  the  wish  of  Mr.  Clinton's  heart,  and  Miss  Isabel  makes  no 
secret  of  her  preference." 

"0,  certainly,"  interposed  Mrs.  Petrancourt;  "it  is  an  un 
derstood  thing.  I  heard  it  spoken  of  by  two  or  three  persons 
this  evening." 

What  became  of  Gertrude  all  this  time?  Could  she,  who 
for  six  years  had  nursed  the  fond  idea  that  to  Willie  she  was, 
and  should  still  continue  to  be,  all  in  all,  —  could  she  stand 
patiently  by,  and  hear  him  thus  disposed  of  and  given  to  an 
other  ? 

She  did  do  it ;  not  consciously,  however,  for  her  head  swam 
round,  and  she  would  have  fallen  but  for  the  firm  support  of 
Mr.  Phillips,  who  held  her  arm  so  tightly  that  though  he  felt, 
the  rest  could  not  see,  how  she  trembled.  Fortunately,  too, 
none  but  he  thought  of  noticing  her  blanched  face ;  and  as  she 
stood  somewhat  in  the  shadow,  he  alone,  fully  aware  of  her 
agitation,  was  watching  the  strained  and  eager  eyes,  the  parted 
and  rigid  lips,  the  death-like  pallor  of  her  countenance. 

Standing  there  with  her  heart  beating  like  a  heavy  drum,  and 
almost  believing  herself  in  a  horrid  dream,  she  listened  atten 
tively,  heard  and  comprehended  every  word.  She  could  not, 
however,  have  spoken  or  moved  for  her  life,  and  in  an  instant 
more  accident  might  have  betrayed  her  excited  and  almost 
alarming  condition.  But  Mr.  Phillips  acted,  spoke,  and  moved 
for  her,  and  she  was  spared  an  exposure  from  which  her  deli 
cate  and  sensitive  spirit  would  have  shrunk  indeed. 

"Mr.  Sullivan!  "  said  he.  '•  Ah!  a  fine  fellow;  I  know  him. 
Miss  Gertrude,  I  must  tell  you  an  anecdote  about  that  young 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  355 

man ; "  and  moving  forward  in  the  direction  in  which  they  had 
been  walking  when  they  met  the  party  from  the  concert,  he 
made  as  if  they  were  still  intending  to  prolong  their  promenade 
—  a  promenade,  however,  in  which  he  was  the  only  walker,  for 
Gertrude  was  literally  borne  upon  his  arm,  until  the  rest  of  the 
company,  who  started  at  the  same  moment  for  the  parlor,  were 
hid  within  its  shelter,  and  he  and  his  companion  were  left  the 
sole  occupants  of  that  portion  of  the  piazza. 

Until  then  he  proceeded  with  his  story,  and  went  so  far  as 
to  relate  that  he  and  Mr.  Sullivan  were,  a  few  years  previous, 
travelling  together  across  an  Arabian  desert,  when  the  latter 
proved  of  signal  service  in  saving  him  from  a  sudden  attack  by 
a  wandering  tribe  of  Bedouins.  By  the  time  he  had  thus  opened 
his  narration,  he  perceived  that  all  danger  of  observation  was 
passed,  and  hesitated  not  to  stop  abruptly,  and  without  ceremony 
or  apology  place  her  in  an  arm-chair  which  stood  conveniently 
near.  "Sit  here,"  said  he,  "while  I  go  and  bring  you  a  glass 
of  water."  He  then  wrapped  her  mantle  tightly  about  her, 
and  walked  quickly  away. 

0,  how  Gertrude  thanked  him  in  her  heart  for  thus  consid 
erately  leaving  her,  and  giving  her  time  to  recover  herself !  It 
was  the  most  judicious  thing  he  could  have  done,  and  the 
kindest.  He  saw  that  she  would  not  faint,  and  knew  that  left 
alone  she  would  soon  rally  her  powers;  perhaps  be  deceived  by 
the  idea  that  even  he  was  only  half  aware  of  her  agitation,  and 
wholly  ignorant  of  its  cause. 

He  was  gone  some  minutes,  and  when  he  returned  she  was 
perfectly  calm.  She  tasted  the  water,  but  he  did  not  urge  her 
to  drink  it;  he  knew  she  did  not  require  it.  "I  have  kept  you 
out  too  long,"  said  he;  "come,  you  had  better  go  in  now." 

She  rose ;  he  put  her  arm  once  more  through  his,  guided  her 
feeble  steps  to  a  window  which  opened  into  hers  and  Emily's 
room,  and  then,  pausing  a  moment,  said  in  a  meaning  tone,  at 
the  same  time  enforcing  his  words  by  the  fixed  glance  of  his 
piercing  eye,  "  You  exhort  me,  Miss  Gertrude,  to  have  faith  in 
everybody;  but  I  bid  you,  all  inexperienced  as  you  are,  to 
beware  lest  you  believe  too  much.  Where  you  have  good  foun 
dation  for  confidence,  abide  by  it,  if  you  can,  firmly  and  bravely ; 
but  trust  nothing  which  you  have  not  fairly  tested,  and  espe 
cially,  rest  assured  that  the  idle  gossip  of  a  place  like  this  is 
utterly  unworthy  of  credit.  Good-night." 


356  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

What  an  utter  revulsion  of  feeling  these  words  occasioned 
Gertrude !  They  came  to  her  with  all  the  force  of  a  prophecy, 
and  struck  deep  into  her  heart.  Was  there  not  wisdom  in  the 
stranger's  counsel?  It  was  true,  she  thought,  that  he  spoke 
merely  such  simple  axioms  as  a  long  experience  of  the  world 
might  dictate ;  but  how  forcible,  in  her  case,  was  their  applica 
tion  !  Had  not  she,  blindly  yielding  to  her  gloomy  presenti 
ments  and  fears,  been  willing  to  lend  a  too  ready  ear  to  the 
whisperings  of  her  own  jealous  imagination,  and  a  too  credulous 
one  to  the  idle  reports  of  others,  while  in  reality  she  had  proved 
a  traitor  to  a  more  noble  trust  1  Who,  during  the  many  years 
she  had  known  him,  could  have  proved  himself  more  worthy 
of  confidence  than  Willie?  Had  he  not,  from  his  boyhood, 
been  exemplary  in  every  virtue,  superior  to  every  meanness  and 
every  form  of  vice  ?  Had  he  not  in  his  early  youth  forsaken  all 
that  he  held  most  dear,  to  toil  and  labor  beneath  an  Indian 
sun,  that  he  might  provide  comforts  and  luxuries  for  those 
whose  support  he  eagerly  took  upon  himself  ?  Had  he  not  ever 
proved  honorable,  high-minded,  sincere,  and  warm  of  heart? 
Above  all,  had  he  not  been  imbued  from  his  infancy  with  the 
highest  and  purest  of  Christian  principles  ? 

He  had,  indeed,  been  all  this;  and  while  Gertrude  called  it 
to  mind,  and  dwelt  upon  each  phase  of  his  consistent  course, 
she  could  not  fail  to  remember,  too,  that  Willie,  whether  as  the 
generous,  kind-hearted  boy,  the  adventurous,  energetic  youth, 
the  successful,  respected,  yet  sorrow-tried  man,  had  ever  mani 
fested  towards  herself  the  same  deep,  ardent,  enthusiastic 
attachment.  The  love  which  he  had  shown  for  her  in  her  child 
hood,  and  during  that  period  when,  though  still  a  child,  she 
labored  under  the  full-grown  care  and  sorrow  entailed  upon 
her  by  Uncle  True's  sickness  and  death,  had  seemed  to  grow 
and  deepen  in  every  successive  day,  month,  and  year  of  their 
separation. 

During  their  long  and  regular  correspondence,  no  letter  had 
come  from  Willie  that  did  not  breathe  the  same  spirit  of  devoted 
affection  for  Gertrude,  —  an  exclusive  affection,  in  which  there 
could  be  no  rivalship.  All  his  thoughts  of  home  and  future 
happy  days  were  inseparably  associated  with  her ;  and  although 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  with  that  instinctive  reserve  which  was  one  of 
her  characteristics,  never  broached  the  subject  to  Gertrude,  her 
whole  treatment  of  the  latter  sufficiently  evinced  that  to  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  357 

mind  the  event  of  her  future  union  with  her  son  was  a  thing 
certain.  The  bold  declaration  on  Willie's  part,  conveyed  in 
the  letter  received  by  Gertrude  soon  after  his  mother's  death, 
that  his  hopes,  his  prayers,  his  labors,  were  now  all  for  her, 
was  not  a  more  convincing  proof  of  the  tender  light  in  which  he 
regarded  her  than  all  their  previous  intercourse  had  been. 

Should  Gertrude,  then,  distrust  him?  Should  she  at  once 
set  aside  all  past  evidences  of  his  worth,  and  give  ready  cre 
dence  to  his  prompt  desertion  of  his  early  friend?  No!  she 
resolved  immediately  to  banish  the  unworthy  thought,  to  cher 
ish  still  the  firm  belief  that  some  explanation  would  shortly 
offer  itself,  which  would  yet  satisfy  her  aching  heart.  Until 
then,  she  would  trust  him;  bravely  and  firmly  too  would  she 
trust,  for  her  confidence  was  not  without  foundation. 

As  she  made  this  heroic  resolve,  she  lifted  up  her  drooping 
head  and  gazed  out  into  the  night.  The  moon  had  gone  down, 
and  the  sky  was  studded  with  stars,  bright,  clear,  and  beautiful. 
Gertrude  loved  a  starry  night.  It  invigorated  and  strengthened 
her ;  and  now,  as  she  looked  up,  directly  above  her  head  stood 
the  star  she  so  much  loved,  —  the  star  which  she  had  once  fondly 
fancied  it  was  Uncle  True's  blessed  privilege  to  light  for  her. 
And  as  in  times  long  past  these  heavenly  lights  had  spoken  of 
comfort  to  her  soul,  she  seemed  now  to  hear  ringing  in  her  ears 
the  familiar  saying  of  the  dear  old  man,  "  Cheer  up,  birdie,  for 
I  'm  of  the  'pinion  'twill  all  come  out  right  at  last." 

Gertrude  continued  through  the  short  remainder  of  the  even 
ing  in  an  elevated  frame  of  mind,  which  might  almost  be  termed 
joyful;  and  thus  sustained,  she  was  able  to  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room  for  Emily,  say  good-night  to  her  friends  with  a 
cheerful  voice,  and  before  midnight  she  sought  her  pillow  and 
went  quietly  to  sleep. 

This  composed  state  of  mind,  however,  was  partly  the  result 
of  strong  excitement,  and  therefore  could  not  last.  The  next 
morning  found  her  once  more  yielding  to  depressed  spirits,  and 
the  effort  which  she  made  to  rise,  dress,  and  go  to  breakfast 
was  almost  mechanical.  She  excused  herself  from  her  custom 
ary  walk  with  the  doctor,  for  to  that  she  felt  quite  unequal. 
Her  first  wish  was  to  leave  Saratoga ;  she  longed  to  go  home,  to 
be  in  a  quiet  place,  where  so  many  eyes  would  not  be  upon  her ; 
and  when  the  doctor  came  in  with  the  letters  which  had  arrived 
by  the  early  mail,  she  looked  at  them  so  eagerly  that  he  ob- 


358  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

served  it,  and  said  smilingly,  "None  for  you,  Gerty;  but  one 
for  Emily,  which  is  the  next  best  thing,  I  suppose." 

To  Gertrude  this  was  the  very  best  thing,  for  it  was  a  long- 
expected  letter  from  Mr.  Graham,  which  would  probably  men 
tion  the  time  of  his  return  from  abroad,  and  consequently  deter 
mine  the  continuance  of  her  own  and  Emily's  visit  at  Saratoga. 

To  their  astonishment,  he  had  already  arrived  in  New  York, 
and  desired  them  to  join  him  there  the  following  day.  Ger 
trude  could  hardly  conceal  her  satisfaction,  which  was,  however, 
if  noticed  by  her  friends,  merely  attributed  to  the  pleasure  she 
probably  felt  at  the  return  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham;  and 
Emily,  realJy  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  so  soon  meeting  her 
father,  to  whom  she  was  fondly  attached,  was  eager  to  com 
mence  preparations  for  leaving. 

They  therefore  retired  to  their  own  room,  and  Gertrude's 
time  until  dinner  was  fully  occupied  in  the  business  of  packing. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  the  previous  day  she  had  been  anx 
iously  hoping  that  Willie  would  make  his  appearance  at  their 
hotel;  now,  on  the  contrary,  she  as  earnestly  dreaded  such  an 
event.  To  meet  him  in  so  public  a  manner,  too,  as  must  here 
be  inevitable,  would,  under  her  present  state  of  feelings,  be  in 
supportable  ;  she  would  infinitely  prefer  to  be  in  Boston  when  he 
should  first  see  and  recognize  her ;  and  if  she  tormented  herself 
yesterday  with  the  fear  that  he  would  not  come,  the  dread  that 
he  might  do  so  was  a  still  greater  cause  of  distress  to  her  to-day. 

She  was  therefore  relieved  when,  after  dinner,  Mr.  Phillips 
kindly  proposed  a  drive  to  the  lake.  Dr.  Gryseworth  and  one 
of  his  daughters  had,  he  assured  Gertrude,  agreed  to  take  seats 
in  a  carriage  which  he  had  provided,  and  he  hoped  she  would 
not  refuse  to  occupy  the  fourth.  As  it  was  an  hour  when 
Emily  would  not  require  her  presence,  and  she  would  thus  be 
sure  to  avoid  Willie,  she  gladly  consented  to  the  arrangement. 

They  had  been  at  the  lake  nearly  an  hour.  Dr.  Gryseworth 
and  his  daughter  Ellen  had  been  persuaded  by  a  party  whom 
they  met  there  to  engage  in  bowling.  Mr.  Phillips  and  Ger 
trude  had  declined  taking  part,  but  stood  for  some  time  looking 
on.  The  day,  however,  being  warm,  and  the  air  in  the  build 
ing  uncomfortably  close,  they  had  gone  outside  and  seated  them 
selves  on  a  bench  at  a  little  distance,  to  wait  until  the  game 
was  concluded.  As  they  sat  thus,  surveying  the  beautiful 
sheet  of  water,  now  rosy  red  with  the  rays  of  the  descending 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  359 

sun,  a  couple  approached  and  took  up  a  position  near  them. 
Mr.  Phillips  was  quite  screened  from  their  observation  by  the 
trunk  of  a  huge  tree,  and  Gertrude  sufficiently  so  to  be  unno 
ticed,  though  the  sudden  paleness  which  overspread  her  face  as 
they  drew  near  was  so  marked  as  clearly  to  indicate  that  she 
saw  and  recognized  William  Sullivan  and  Isabel  Clinton.  The 
words  which  they  spoke,  also,  fell  distinctly  upon  her  ear. 

"  Shall  I,  then,  be  so  much  missed  ? "  asked  Isabel,  looking 
earnestly  in  the  face  of  her  companion,  who,  with  a  serious 
air,  was  gazing  out  upon  the  water. 

"  Missed ! "  replied  he,  turning  towards  her,  and  speaking  in 
a  slightly  reproachful  voice.  "  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  Who 
can  supply  your  place  ?  " 

"But  it  will  be  only  two  days." 

"A  short  time,  under  ordinary  circumstances,"  said  Willie, 
"  but  an  eternity  —  "  He  here  checked  himself,  and  made  a 
sudden  motion  to  proceed  on  their  walk. 

Isabel  followed  him,  saying,  "But  you  will  wait  here  until 
my  return  ? " 

He  again  turned  to  reply,  and  this  time  the  reproachful  look 
which  overspread  his  features  was  visible  to  Gertrude,  as  he 
said  with  great  earnestness,  "  Certainly ;  can  you  doubt  it  ? " 

The  strange,  fixed,  unnatural  expression  which  took  posses 
sion  of  Gertrude's  countenance  as  she  listened  to  this  conver 
sation,  to  her  so  deeply  fraught  with  meaning,  was  fearful  to 
witness. 

"  Gertrude ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Phillips,  after  watching  her  for 
a  moment.  "Gertrude,  for  heaven's  sake,  do  not  look  so! 
Speak,  Gertrude !  What  is  the  matter  1 " 

But  she  did  not  turn  her  eyes,  did  not  move  a  feature  of  that 
stony  face;  she  evidently  did  not  hear  him.  He  took  her 
hand.  It  was  cold  as  marble.  His  face  now  wore  an  appear 
ance  of  distress  almost  equal  to  her  own;  great  tears  rushed 
to  his  eyes,  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Once  he  stretched 
forth  his  arms,  as  if  he  would  gladly  clasp  her  to  his  bosom  and 
soothe  her  like  a  little  child,  but  with  evident  effort  he  re 
pressed  the  emotion.  "Gertrude,"  said  he,  at  length,  leaning 
forward  and  fixing  his  eyes  full  upon  hers,  "what  have  these 
people  done  to  you  ?  Why  do  you  care  for  them  ?  If  that  young 
man  has  injured  you,  —  the  rascal !  —  he  shall  answer  for  it ! " 
and  he  sprung  to  his  feet. 


360  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

The  words  and  the  action  brought  Gertrude  to  herself.  "No! 
no !  "  said  she,  "  he  is  not  that.  I  am  better  now.  Do  not  speak 
of  it;  don't  tell,"  and  she  looked  anxiously  in  the  direction  of 
the  bowling-alley.  "I  am  a  great  deal  better."  And  to  his 
astonishment,  —  for  the  fearful,  rigid  look  upon  her  face  had 
frightened  him,  — she  rose  with  perfect  composure,  and  pro 
posed  going  home. 

He  accompanied  her  silently,  and  before  they  were  halfway 
up  the  hill  where  they  had  left  the  carriage,  they  were  over 
taken  by  the  rest  of  their  party,  and  in  a  few  moments  were 
driving  towards  Saratoga. 

During  the  whole  drive  and  the  evening  which  followed  Ger 
trude  preserved  this  same  rigid,  unnatural  composure.  Once 
or  twice  before  they  reached  the  hotel  Dr.  Gryse worth  asked 
her  if  she  felt  ill,  and  Mr.  Phillips  turned  many  an  anxious 
glance  towards  her.  The  very  tones  of  her  voice  were  con 
strained,  —  so  much  so  that  Emily,  on  her  reaching  the  house, 
inquired  at  once,  "  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child  1 " 

But  she  declared  herself  quite  well,  and  went  through  all  the 
duties  and  proprieties  of  the  evening,  bidding  farewell  to  many 
of  her  friends,  and  when  she  parted  from  the  Gryseworths  ar 
ranging  to  see  them  again  in  the  morning. 

To  the  careless  eye,  Emily  was  the  more  troubled  of  the  two, 
for  Emily  could  not  be  deceived,  and  reflected  back,  in  her 
whole  demeanor,  the  better  concealed  sufferings  of  Gertrude. 
Gertrude  neither  knew  at  the  time,  nor  could  afterwards  recall, 
one  half  of  the  occurrences  of  that  evening.  She  never  could 
understand  what  it  was  that  sustained  her,  and  enabled  her, 
half  unconsciously,  to  perform  her  part  in  them.  How  she  so 
successfully  concealed  the  misery  she  was  enduring  she  never 
could  comprehend  or  explain.  She  remembered  it  only  as  if  it 
had  all  been  a  dream. 

Not  until  the  still  hours  of  the  night,  when  Emily  appeared 
to  be  soundly  sleeping  by  her  side,  did  she  venture  for  an  in 
stant  to  loosen  the  iron  bands  of  restraint  which  she  had  im 
posed  upon  herself;  but  then,  the  barrier  removed,  the  pent-up 
torrent  of  her  grief  burst  forth  without  check  or  hindrance. 
She  rose  from  her  bed,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  cushions  of 
a  low  couch,  which  stood  near  the  window,  gave  herself  up  to 
blessed  tears,  every  drop  of  which  was  a  relief  to  her  aching 
Boul.  Since  her  early  childhood  she  had  never  indulged  so  long 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  361 

and  unrestrained  a  fit  of  weeping ;  and  the  heaving  of  her  chest, 
and  the  deep  sobs  she  uttered,  proved  the  depth  of  her  agony. 
All  other  sorrows  had  found  her  in  a  great  degree  fortified  and 
prepared,  armed  with  religious  trust  and  encouraged  by  a  holy 
hope ;  but  beneath  this  sudden  and  unlooked-for  blow  she  bent, 
staggered,  and  shrunk,  as  the  sapling  of  a  summer's  growth 
heaves  and  trembles  beneath  the  wintry  blast. 

That  Willie  was  faithless  to  his  first  love  she  could  not  now 
feel  a  shadow  of  doubt;  and  with  this  conviction  she  realized 
that  the  prop  and  stay  of  her  life  had  fallen.  Uncle  True  and 
Mrs.  Sullivan  were  both  her  benefactors,  and  Emily  was  still 
a  dear  and  steadfast  friend ;  but  all  of  these  had  been  more  or 
less  dependent  upon  Gertrude,  and  although  she  could  ever  re 
pose  in  the  assurance  of  their  love,  two  had  long  before  they 
passed  away  come  to  lean  wholly  upon  her  youthful  arm,  and 
the  other,  the  last  one  left,  not  only  trusted  to  her  to  guide  her 
uncertain  steps,  but  those  steps  were  evidently  now  tending 
downwards  to  the  grave. 

Upon  whom,  then,  should  Gertrude  lean?  To  whom  should 
she  look  as  the  staff  of  her  young  and  inexperienced  life  ?  To 
whom  could  she,  with  confidence,  turn  for  counsel,  protection, 
support,  and  love  ?  To  whom  but  Willie  1  And  Willie  had 
given  his  heart  to  another, —  and  Gertrude  would  soon  be  left 
alone ! 

No  wonder,  then,  that  she  wept  as  the  broken-hearted  weep; 
wept  until  the  fountain  of  her  tears  was  dry,  and  she  felt  her 
self  sick,  faint,  and  exhausted.  And  now  she  rose,  approached 
the  window,  flung  back  from  her  forehead  the  heavy  folds  of 
her  long  hair,  leaned  out,  and  from  the  breath  of  the  cool  night 
breeze  drank  in  a  refreshing  influence.  Her  soul  grew  calmer, 
as  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bright  lights  which  shone  so 
sweetly  and  calmly  down,  she  seemed  to  commune  with  holy 
things.  Once  more  they  seemed  to  compassionate  her,  and  as  in 
the  days  of  her  lonely  childhood,  to  whisper,  "  Gerty !  Gerty ! 
poor  little  Gerty!" 

Softened  and  touched  by  their  pitying  glance,  she  gradually 
sunk  upon  her  knees;  her  uplifted  face,  her  clasped  hands,  the 
sweet  expression  of  resignation  now  gradually  creeping  over  her 
countenance,  all  gave  evidence  that,  as  on  the  occasion  of  her 
first  silent  prayer  to  the  then  unknown  God,  her  now  enlight 
ened  soul  was  holding  deep  communion  with  its  Maker,  and 


362  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

once  more  her  spirit  was  uttering  the  simple  words,  f '  Here  am 
I,  Lord!" 

0,  blessed  religion  which  can  sustain  the  heart  in  such  an 
hour  as  this !  0,  blessed  faith  and  trust,  which,  when  earthly 
support  fails  us,  and  our  strongest  earthly  stay  proves  but  a 
rope  of  sand,  lifts  the  soul  above  all  other  need,  and  clasps  it 
to  the  bosom  of  its  God ! 

And  now  a  gentle  hand  is  laid  upon  her  head.  She  turns 
and  sees  Emily,  whom  she  had  believed  to  be  asleep,  but  from 
whom  anxiety  had  effectually  banished  slumber,  and  who,  with 
fears  redoubled  by  the  sobs  which  Gertrude  could  not  wholly 
repress,  is  standing  by  her  side. 

"Gertrude,"  said  she  in  a  grieved  tone,  "are  you  in  trouble, 
and  did  you  seek  to  hide  it  from  me  ?  Do  not  turn  from  me, 
Gertrude ! "  and  throwing  her  arms  around  her,  she  drew  her 
head  close  to  her  bosom,  and  whispered,  "Tell  me  all,  my  dar 
ling  !  What  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  child  ?  " 

And  Gertrude  unburdened  her  heart  to  Emily,  disclosing  to 
her  attentive  ear  the  confession  of  the  only  secret  she  had  ever 
kept  from  her ;  and  Emily  wept  as  she  listened,  and  when  Ger 
trude  had  finished  she  pressed  her  again  and  again  to  her  heart, 
exclaiming  as  she  did  so,  with  an  excitement  of  tone  and  man 
ner  which  Gertrude  had  never  before  witnessed  in  the  usually 
calm  and  placid  blind  girl,  "Strange,  strange,  that  you,  too, 
should  be  thus  doomed!  0  Gertrude,  my  darling,  we  may 
well  weep  together;  but  still,  believe  me,  your  sorrow  is  far 
less  bitter  than  mine !  " 

And  then,  in  the  darkness  of  that  midnight  hour  was  Ger 
trude's  confidence  rewarded  by  the  revelation  of  that  tale  of 
grief  and  woe  which  twenty  years  before  had  blighted  Emily's 
youth,  and  which,  notwithstanding  the  flight  of  time,  was  still 
vivid  to  her  recollection,  casting  over  her  life  a  dark  shadow, 
of  which  her  blindness  was  but  a  single  feature. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  353 


CHAPTER   XL 

When,  lo !  arrayed  in  robes  of  light, 

A  nymph  celestial  came  ; 
She  cleared  the  mists  that  dimmed  my  sight  — 

Religion  was  her  name. 
She  proved  the  chastisement  divine, 

And  bade  me  kiss  the  rod  ; 
She  taught  this  rebel  heart  of  mine 

Submission  to  its  God. 

HANNAH  MORE. 

"I  WAS  younger  than  you,  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "when  my 
trial  came,  and  hardly  the  same  person  in  any  respect  that  I 
have  heen  since  you  first  knew  me.  You  are  aware,  perhaps, 
that  my  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to  retain  any  recol 
lection  of  her;  hut  my  father  soon  married  again,  and  in  this 
step-parent,  whom  I  remember  with  as  much  tenderness  as  if 
she  had  heen  my  own  mother,  I  found  a  love  and  care  which 
fully  compensated  for  my  loss.  I  can  recall  her  now  as  she 
looked  towards  the  latter  part  of  her  life,  —  a  tall,  delicate, 
feeble  woman,  with  a  very  sweet  but  rather  sad  face.  She 
was  a  widow  when  my  father  married  her,  and  had  one  son, 
who  became  at  once  my  sole  companion,  the  partner  of  all  my 
youthful  pleasures.  You  told  me,  many  years  ago,  that  I  could 
not  imagine  how  much  you  loved  Willie,  and  I  was  then  on 
the  point  of  confiding  to  you  a  part  of  my  early  history,  and 
convincing  you  that  my  own  experience  might  well  have  taught 
me  how  to  understand  such  a  love;  but  I  checked  myself,  for 
you  were  too  young  then  to  be  burdened  with  the  knowledge 
of  so  sad  a  story  as  mine,  and  I  kept  silent.  How  dear  my 
young  playmate  became  to  me,  no  words  can  express.  The 
office  which  each  filled,  the  influence  which  each  of  us  exerted 
upon  the  other,  was  such  as  to  create  mutual  dependence;  for 
though  his  was  the  leading  spirit,  the  strong  and  determined 
will,  and  I  was  ever  submissive  to  a  rule  which  to  my  easily 
influenced  nature  was  never  irksome,  there  was  one  respect  in 
which  my  bold  young  protector  and  ruler  ever  looked  to  me  for 


364  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

aid  and  support.  It  was  to  act  as  mediator  between  him  and 
my  father;  for  while  the  boy  was  almost  an  idol  to  his  mother, 
he  was  ever  treated  with  coldness  and  distrust  by  my  father, 
who  never  understood  or  appreciated  his  many  noble  qualities, 
but  seemed  always  to  regard  him  with  an  eye  of  suspicion  and 
dislike.  To  my  supplicating  looks  and  entreating  words,  how- 
ever,  he  ever  lent  a  willing  ear,  and  all  my  eloquence  was  sure 
to  be  at  the  service  of  my  companion  when  he  had  a  favor  to 
obtain  or  an  excuse  to  plead. 

"That  my  father's  sternness  towards  her  son  was  a  great 
cause  of  unhappiness  to  our  mother,  I  can  have  no  doubt;  for 
I  well  remember  the  anxiety  with  which  she  strove  to  conceal 
his  faults  and  misdemeanors,  and  the  frequent  occasions  on 
which  she  herself  instructed  me  how  to  propitiate  the  parent, 
who,  for  my  sake  would  often  forgive  the  boy,  whose  bold, 
adventurous,  independent  disposition  was  continually  bringing 
him  into  collision  with  one  of  whose  severity,  when  displeased, 
you  have  yourself  had  some  opportunity  to  judge.  My  step 
mother  had  been  extremely  poor  in  her  widowhood,  and  her 
child,  having  inherited  nothing  which  he  could  call  his  own, 
was  wholly  dependent  upon  my  father's  bounty.  This  was  a 
stinging  cause  of  mortification  and  trial  to  the  pride  of  which 
even  as  a  boy  he  had  an  unusual  share;  and  often  have  I  seen 
him  chafed  and  irritated  at  the  reception  of  favors  which  he 
well  understood  were  far  from  being  awarded  by  a  paternal  hand; 
my  father,  in  the  mean  time,  who  did  not  understand  this  feel 
ing,  mentally  accusing  him  of  gross  ingratitude. 

"As  long  as  our  mother  was  spared  to  us  we  lived  in  com 
parative  harmony;  but  at  last,  when  I  was  just  sixteen  years 
old,  she  was  stricken  with  sudden  illness,  and  died.  Well  do 
I  remember,  the  last  night  of  her  life,  her  calling  me  to  the 
bedside,  and  saying,  in  a  solemn  voice,  '  Emily,  my  dying  prayer 
is  that  you  will  be  a  guardian  angel  to  my  boy ! '  God  forgive 
me,"  ejaculated  the  now  tearful  blind  girl,  "if  I  have  been 
faithless  to  the  trust !  " 

"He  of  whom  I  am  telling  you  (for  Emily  carefully  forbore 
to  mention  his  name)  was  then  about  eighteen.  He  had  lately 
become  a  clerk  in  my  father's  counting-room,  much  against  his 
will,  for  he  earnestly  desired  a  collegiate  education;  but  my 
father  was  determined,  and  at  his  mother's  and  my  persuasion 
he  was  induced  to  submit.  My  step-mother's  death  knit  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  365 

tie  "between  her  son  and  myself  more  closely  than  ever.  He 
still  continued  an  inmate  of  our  house,  and  we  passed  all  the 
time  that  he  could  be  spared  from  the  office  in  the  enjoyment 
of  each  other's  society ;  for  my  father  was  much  from  home, 
and  when  there,  usually  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  leaving 
us  to  entertain  each  other.  I  was  then  a  school-girl,  fond  of 
books,  and  an  excellent  student.  How  often,  when  you  have 
spoken  of  the  assistance  Willie  was  to  you  in  your  studies,  have 
I  been  reminded  of  the  time  when  I,  too,  received  similar  en 
couragement  and  aid  from  my  own  youthful  companion  and 
friend,  who  was  ever  ready  to  exert  hand  and  brain  in  my  be 
half!  We  were  not  invariably  happy,  however.  Often  did 
r?iy  father's  face  wear  that  stern  expression  which  I  most  dreaded 
to  see;  while  the  excited,  disturbed,  and  occasionally  angry 
countenance  of  his  step-son  denoted  plainly  that  some  storm 
had  occurred,  probably  at  the  counting-room,  of  which  I  had 
no  knowledge,  except  from  its  after  effects.  My  office  of  me 
diator,  too,  was  suspended,  from  the  fact  that  the  difficulties 
which  arose  were  usually  concerning  some  real  or  supposed 
neglect  or  mismanagement  of  business  matters  on  the  part  of  the 
young  and  inexperienced  clerk ;  a  species  of  faults  with  which 
my  father,  a  most  thorough  merchant  and  exact  accountant,  had 
very  little  patience,  and  to  which  the  careless  and  unbusiness 
like  delinquent  was  exceedingly  prone.  Matters  went  on  thus 
for  about  six  months,  when  it  suddenly  became  evident  that  my 
father  had  either  been  powerfully  influenced  by  insinuations 
from  some  foreign  quarter,  or  had  himself  suddenly  conceived 
a  new  and  alarming  idea.  He  is,  as  you  are  aware,  a  plain 
man,  honest  and  straightforward  in  his  purposes,  whatever  they 
may  be ;  and  even  if  it  occurred  to  him  to  manoeuvre,  incapable 
of  carrying  out  successfully,  or  with  tact,  any  species  of  artifice. 
Our  eyes  could  not  therefore  long  be  closed  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  resolved  to  put  an  immediate  check  upon  the  freedom  of 
intercourse  which  had  hitherto  subsisted  between  the  two  youth 
ful  inmates  of  his  house;  to  forward  which  purpose  he  imme 
diately  introduced  into  the  family,  in  the  position  of  house 
keeper,  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  has  continued  with  us  ever  since.  The 
almost  constant  presence  of  this  stranger,  together  with  the  sud 
den  interference  of  my  father  with  such  of  our  long-established 
customs  as  favored  his  step-son's  familiar  intimacy  with  me, 
sufficiently  proved  his  intention  to  uproot  and  destroy,  if  pos- 


366  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

sible,  the  closeness  of  our  friendship.  Nor  was  it  surprising, 
considering  the  circumstance  that  I  had  already  reached  the 
period  of  womanhood,  and  the  attachment  between  us  could  no 
longer  be  considered  a  childish  one,  while  any  other  might  be 
expected  to  draw  forth  my  father's  disapproval,  since  his  wife's 
idolized  son  was  as  far  as  ever  from  being  a  favorite  with  him. 

"My  distress  at  these  proceedings  was  only  equalled  by  the 
indignation  of  my  companion  in  suffering,  whom  no  previous 
conduct  on  my  father's  part  had  ever  angered  as  this  did;  nor 
did  the  scheme  succeed  in  separating  him  from  me;  for  while 
he  on  every  possible  occasion  avoided  the  presence  of  that  spy 
(as  he  termed  Mrs.  Ellis),  his  inventive  genius  continually  con 
trived  opportunities  of  seeing  and  conversing  with  me  in  her 
absence,  —  a  course  of  behavior  calculated  to  give  still  greater 
coloring  to  my  father's  suspicions. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  he  was  mainly  actuated  to  this  course 
by  a  deep  sense  of  unkindness  and  injustice,  and  a  desire  to 
manifest  his  independence  of  what  he  considered  unwarrantable 
tyranny ;  nor  have  I  reason  to  believe  that  the  idea  of  romance 
or  even  future  marriage  with  myself  entered  at  all  into  his  cal 
culations;  and  I,  who  at  that  time  knew  or  at  least  was  influ 
enced  by  no  higher  law  than  his  will,  lent  myself  unhesitatingly 
to  a  species  of  petty  deception,  to  elude  the  vigilance  which 
would  have  kept  us  apart.  My  father,  however,  as  is  frequently 
the  case  with  people  of  his  unsocial  temperament  and  apparent 
obtuseness  of  observation,  saw  more  of  our  manoeuvring  than 
we  were  aware  of,  and  imagined  far  more  than  ever  in  reality 
existed.  He  watched  us  carefully,  and,  contrary  to  his  usual 
course  of  proceeding,  forbore  for  a  time  any  interference.  I 
have  since  been  led  to  think  that  he  designed  to  wean  us  from 
each  other  in  a  less  unnatural  manner  than  that  which  he  had 
at  first  attempted,  by  availing  himself  of  the  earliest  opportu 
nity  to  transfer  his  step-son  to  a  situation  connected  with  his 
own  mercantile  establishment,  either  in  a  foreign  country  or  a 
distant  part  of  our  own ;  and  forbore,  until  his  plans  were  ripe, 
to  distress  and  grieve  me  by  giving  way  to  the  feelings  of  an 
noyance  and  displeasure  which  were  burning  within  him,  —  for 
he  was,  and  had  ever  been,  as  kind  and  indulgent  toward  his 
undeserving  child  as  was  consistent  with  a  due  maintenance  of 
his  authority. 

"  Before  such  a  course  could  be  carried  out,  however,  circum- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  367 

stances  occurred,  and  suspicions  became  aroused,  which  de 
stroyed  one  of  their  victims,  and  plunged  the  other  —  " 

Here  Emily's  voice  failed  her.  She  laid  her  head  upon  Ger 
trude's  shoulder,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

"Do  not  try  to  tell  me  the  rest,  dear  Emily,"  said  Gertrude. 
"It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  you  are  so  unhappy.  Do 
not  make  yourself  wretched  by  dwelling,  for  my  sake,  upon 
sorrows  that  are  past." 

"Past!"  replied  Emily,  recovering  her  voice,  and  wiping 
away  her  tears;  "no,  they  are  never  past;  it  is  only  because  I 
am  so  little  wont  to  speak  of  them  that  they  overcome  me  now. 
Nor  am  I  unhappy,  Gertrude.  It  is  but  rarely  that  my  peace 
is  shaken;  nor  would  I  now  allow  my  weak  nerves  to  be  un 
strung  by  imparting  to  another  the  secrets  of  that  never  to  be 
forgotten  time  of  trial,  were  it  not  that,  since  you  know  so  well 
how  harmoniously  and  sweetly  my  life  is  passing  on  to  its  great 
and  eternal  awakening,  I  desire  to  prove  to  my  darling  child 
the  power  of  that  heavenly  faith  which  has  turned  my  darkness 
into  marvellous  light,  and  made  afflictions  such  as  mine  the 
blessed  harbingers  of  final  joy. 

"But  I  have  not  much  more  to  tell,  and  that  shall  be  in  as 
few  words  as  possible." 

She  then  went  on,  in  a  firm  though  low  and  suppressed  voice : 

"I  was  suddenly  taken  ill  with  a  fever.  Mrs.  Ellis,  whom 
I  had  always  treated  with  coldness,  and  often  with  disdain  (for 
you  must  remember  I  was  a  spoiled  child),  nursed  me  by  night 
and  day  with  a  care  and  devotion  which  I  had  no  right  to  ex 
pect  at  her  hands ;  and  under  her  watchful  attendance  and  the 
skilful  treatment  of  our  good  Dr.  Jeremy  (even  then  the  family 
physician),  I  began,  after  some  weeks,  to  recover.  One  day, 
when  I  was  sufficiently  well  to  be  up  and  dressed  for  several 
hours  at  a  time,  I  went  for  change  of  air  and  scene  into  my 
father's  library,  the  room  next  my  own,  and  there  quite  alone 
lay  half  reclining  upon  the  sofa.  Mrs.  Ellis  had  gone  to  at 
tend  to  household  duties,  but  before  she  left  me,  she  brought 
from  the  adjoining  chamber  and  placed  within  my  reach  a  small 
table,  upon  which  were  arranged  various  phials,  glasses,  etc., 
and  among  them  everything  which  I  could  possibly  require  be 
fore  her  return.  It  was  towards  the  latter  part  of  an  afternoon 
in  June,  and  I  lay  watching  the  approach  of  sunset  from  an 
opposite  window.  I  was  oppressed  with  a  sad  sense  of  lone- 


368  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

liness,  for  during  the  past  six  weeks  I  had  enjoyed  no  society 
but  that  of  my  nurse,  together  with  periodical  visits  from  my 
father;  and  felt  therefore  no  common  satisfaction  and  pleasure 
when  my  most  congenial  but  now  nearly  forbidden  associate 
unexpectedly  entered  the  room.  He  had  not  seen  me  since  my 
illness,  and  after  this  unusually  protracted  and  painful  separa 
tion  our  meeting  was  proportionately  tender  and  affectionate. 
He  had,  with  all  the  fire  of  a  hot  and  ungoverned  temper,  a 
woman's  depth  of  feeling,  warmth  of  heart,  and  sympathizing 
sweetness  of  manner.  Well  do  I  remember  the  expression  of 
his  noble  face,  the  manly  tones  of  his  voice,  as  seated  beside 
me  on  the  wide  couch,  he  bathed  the  temples  of  my  aching 
head  with  cologne,  which  he  took  from  the  table  near  by,  at 
the  same  time  expressing  again  and  again  his  joy  at  once  more 
seeing  me. 

"  How  long  we  had  sat  thus  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  twilight 
was  deepening  in  the  room,  when  we  were  suddenly  interrupted 
by  my  father,  who  entered  abruptly,  came  towards  us  with 
hasty  steps,  but  stopping  short  when  within  a  yard  or  two, 
folded  his  arms  and  confronted  his  step-son  with  such  a  look 
of  angry  contempt  as  I  had  never  before  seen  upon  his  face. 
The  latter  rose  and  stood  before  him  with  a  glance  of  proud 
defiance,  and  then  ensued  a  scene  which  I  have  neither  the 
wish  nor  the  power  to  describe. 

"It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  in  the  double  accusation  which 
my  excited  parent  now  brought  against  the  object  of  his  wrath, 
he  urged  the  fact  of  his  seeking  (as  he  expressed  it),  by  mean, 
base,  and  contemptible  artifice,  to  win  the  affections,  and  with 
them  the  expected  fortune  of  his  only  child,  as  a  secondary  and 
pardonable  crime,  compared  with  his  deeper,  darker,  and  but 
just  detected  guilt  of  forgery,  — forgery  of  a  large  amount,  and 
upon  his  benefactor's  name. 

"To  this  day,  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Emily  with  feeling, 
"  that  charge  remains  uncontradicted  :  but  I  did  not  then,  I  do 
not  now,  and  I  never  can  believe  it.  Whatever  were  his  faults 
(and  his  impetuous  temper  betrayed  him  into  many),  of  this 
dark  crime  (though  I  have  not  even  his  own  word  in  attesta 
tion)  I  dare  pronounce  him  innocent. 

"  You  cannot  wonder,  Gertrude,  that  in  my  feeble  and  inva 
lid  condition  I  was  hardly  capable  of  realizing  at  the  time,  far 
less  of  retaining  any  distinct  recollection  of,  the  circumstances 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  369 

that  followed  my  father's  words.  A  few  dim  pictures,  how 
ever,  the  last  my  poor  eyes  ever  beheld,  are  still  engraved  upon 
my  memory,  and  visible  to  my  imagination.  My  father  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  light,  and  from  the  first  moment  of  his 
entering  the  room  I  never  saw  his  face  again;  but  the  counte 
nance  of  the  other,  the  object  of  his  accusation,  illumined  as 
it  was  by  the  last  rays  of  the  golden  sunset,  stands  ever  in  the 
foreground  of  my  recollection.  His  head  was  thrown  proudly 
back;  conscious  but  injured  innocence  proclaimed  itself  in  his 
clear,  calm  eye,  which  shrunk  not  from  the  closest  scrutiny; 
his  hand  was  clenched,  as  if  he  were  vainly  striving  to  repress 
the  passion  which  proclaimed  itself  in  the  compressed  lips,  the 
set  teeth,  the  deep  and  angry  indignation  which  overspread  his 
face.  He  did  not  speak,  —  apparently  he  could  not  command 
voice  to  do  so;  but  my  father  continued  to  upbraid  him,  in 
language,  no  doubt,  cutting  and  severe,  though  I  remember  not 
a  word  of  it.  It  was  fearful  to  watch  the  working  of  the  young 
man's  face,  while  he  stood  there  listening  to  taunts  and  endur 
ing  reproaches  which  were  no  doubt  believed  by  him  who  ut 
tered  them  to  be  just  and  merited,  but  which  wrought  the  youth 
to  a  degree  of  frenzy  which  it  was  terrible  indeed  to  witness. 
Suddenly  he  took  one  step  forward,  slowly  lifting  the  clenched 
hand  which  had  hitherto  hung  at  his  side.  I  know  not  whether 
he  might  then  have  intended  to  call  Heaven  to  witness  his  in 
nocence  of  the  crime  with  which  he  was  charged,  or  whether 
he  might  have  designed  to  strike  my  father;  for  I  sprang  from 
my  seat  prepared  to  rush  between  them,  and  implore  them,  for 
my  sake,  to  desist;  but  my  strength  failed  me,  and  with  a 
shriek  I  sunk  back  in  a  fainting  fit. 

"  0,  the  horror  of  my  awakening !  How  shall  I  find  words 
to  tell  it?  —  and  yet  I  must!  Listen,  Gertrude.  He  —  the 
poor,  ruined  boy  —  sprung  to  help  me;  and  maddened  by  in 
justice,  he  knew  not  what  he  did.  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I 
never  blamed  him;  and  if  in  my  agony  I  uttered  words  that 
seemed  like  a  reproach,  it  was  because  I,  too,  was  frantic,  and 
knew  not  what  I  said !  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  he  did  not  —  " 
"No,  no!  he  did  not  —  he  did  not  put  out  my  eyes!"  ex 
claimed  Emily ;  "  it  was  an  accident.      He  reached  forward  for 
the  cologne  which  he  had  just  had  in  his  hand.      There  were 
several  bottles,  and  in  his  haste  he  seized  one  containing  a  power- 


370  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ful  acid  which  Mrs.  Ellis  had  found  occasion  to  use  in  my  sick 
room.  It  had  &  heavy  glass  stopper,  —  and  he  —  his  hand  was 
unsteady,  and  he  spilt  it  all  —  " 

"  On  your  eyes  1 "  shrieked  Gertrude. 

Emily  bowed  her  head. 

"0,  poor  Emily!"  cried  Gertrude,  "and  wretched,  wretched 
young  man ! " 

"Wretched  indeed!"  ejaculated  Emily.  "Bestow  all  your 
pity  on  him,  Gertrude,  for  his  was  the  harder  fate  of  the  two." 

"O  Emily!  how  intense  must  have  been  the  pain  you  en 
dured  !  How  could  you  suffer  so,  and  live  ?  " 

"Do  you  mean  the  pain  from  my  eyes?  That  was  severe 
indeed,  but  the-  mental  agony  was  worse !  " 

"What  became  of  him?"  said  Gertrude.  "What  did  Mr. 
Graham  do?" 

"I  cannot  give  you  any  exact  account  of  what  followed.  I 
was  in  no  state  to  know  anything  of  my  father's  treatment  of 
his  step-son.  You  can  imagine  it,  however.  He  banished  him 
from  his  sight  and  knowledge  forever;  and  it  is  easy  to  believe 
it  was  with  no  added  gentleness,  since  he  had  now,  beside  the 
other  crimes  imputed  to  him,  been  the  unhappy  cause  of  his 
daughter's  blindness." 

"  And  did  you  never  hear  from  him  again  ?  " 

"Yes.  Through  the  good  doctor,  who  alone  knew  all  the 
circumstances,  I  learned  —  after  a  long  interval  of  suspense  — 
that  he  had  sailed  for  South  America;  and  in  the  hope  of  once 
more  communicating  with  the  poor  exile,  and  assuring  him  of 
my  continued  love,  I  rallied  from  the  wretched  state  of  sick 
ness,  fever,  and  blindness,  into  which  I  had  fallen;  the  doctor 
had  even  some  expectation  of  restoring  sight  to  my  eyes,  which 
were  in  a  much  more  hopeful  condition.  Several  months  passed 
away,  and  my  kind  friend,  who  was  most  diligent  and  persever 
ing  in  his  inquiries,  having  at  length  learned  the  actual  resi 
dence  and  address  of  the  ill-fated  youth,  I  was  commencing, 
through  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Ellis  (whom  pity  had  now  wholly  won 
to  my  service),  a  letter  of  love,  and  an  entreaty  for  bis  return, 
when  a  fatal  seal  was  put  to  all  my  earthly  hopes.  He  died, 
in  a  foreign  land,  alone,  unnursed,  untended,  and  uncared  for; 
he  died  of  that  inhospitable  southern  disease,  which  takes  the 
stranger  for  its  victim ;  and  I,  on  hearing  the  news  of  it,  sunk 
back  into  a  more  pitiable  malady ;  and  —  alas  for  the  encourage- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  371 

ment  the  good  doctor  had  held  out  of  my  gradual  restoration  to 
sight !  —  I  wept  all  his  hopes  away !  " 

Emily  paused.  Gertrude  put  her  arms  around  her,  and  they 
clung  closely  to  each  other;  grief  and  sorrow  made  the  union 
between  them  dearer  than  ever. 

"I  was  then,  Gertrude,"  continued  Emily,  "a  child  of  the 
world,  eager  for  worldly  pleasures,  and  ignorant  of  any  other. 
For  a  time,  therefore,  I  dwelt  in  utter  darkness,  —  the  darkness 
of  despair.  I  began,  too,  again  to  feel  my  bodily  strength  re 
stored,  and  to  look  forward  to  a  useless  and  miserable  life.  You 
can  form  no  idea  of  the  utter  wretchedness  in  which  my,  days 
were  passed.  Often  have  I  since  reproached  myself  for  the 
misery  I  must  have  caused  my  poor  father,  who  though  he 
never  spoke  of  it,  was,  I  am  sure,  deeply  pained  by  the  recol 
lection  of  the  terrible  scenes  we  had  lately  gone  through,  and. 
who  would,  I  am  convinced,  have  given  worlds  to  restore  the 
past. 

"But  at  last  there  came  a  dawn  to  my  seemingly  everlasting 
night.  It  came  in  the  shape  of  a  minister  of  Christ,  our  own 
dear  Mr.  Arnold,  who  opened  the  eyes  of  my  understanding, 
lit  the  lamp  of  religion  in  my  now  softened  soul,  taught  me  the 
way  to  peace,  and  led  my  feeble  steps  into  that  blessed  rest 
which  even  on  earth  remaineth  to  the  people  of  God. 

"In  the  eyes  of  the  world,  I  am  still  the  unfortunate  blind 
girl  —  one  who,  by  her  sad  fate,  is  cut  off  from  every  enjoyment ; 
but  so  great  is  the  awakening  I  have  experienced,  that  to  me  it 
is  far  otherwise;  and  I  am  ready  to  exclaim,  like  him  who 
in  old  time  experienced  his  Saviour's  healing  power,  *  Once  I 
was  blind,  but  now  I  see ! '  ' 

Gertrude  half  forgot  her  own  troubles  while  listening  to  Em 
ily's  sad  story;  and  when  the  latter  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
head,  and  prayed  that  she,  too,  might  be  fitted  for  a  patient  en 
durance  of  trial,  and  be  made  stronger  and  better  thereby,  she 
felt  her  heart  penetrated  with  that  deep  love  and  trust  which 
seldom  come  to  us  except  in  the  hour  of  sorrow,  and  prove 
that  it  is  through  suffering  only  we  are  made  perfect. 


372  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XLI 

But  in  that  hour  of  agony  the  maid 
Deserted  not  herself  ;  her  very  dread 
Had  calmed  her  ;  and  her  heart 
Knew  the  whole  horror,  and  its  only  part. 

SODTHBY. 

As  Mr.  Graham  had  expressed  in  his  letter  the  intention  of 
being  at  the  steamboat  wharf  in  New  York  to  meet  his  daugh 
ter  and  Gertrude  on  their  arrival,  Dr.  Jeremy  thought  it  unne 
cessary  for  him  to  accompany  his  charges  further  than  Albany, 
where  he  could  see  them  safely  on  their  way,  and  then  proceed 
to  Boston  with  his  wife  over  the  Western  Railroad;  Mrs.  Jer 
emy  being  now  impatient  to  return  home,  and  having,  more 
over,  no  disposition  to  revisit  the  great  metropolis  of  New  York 
during  the  warm  weather. 

"Good-by,  Gerty,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  bade  them  farewell 
on  the  deck  of  one  of  the  Hudson  River  boats.  "I  'm  afraid 
you've  lost  your  heart  in  Saratoga;  you  don't  look  quite  so 
bright  as  you  did  when  we  first  arrived  there.  It  can't  have 
strayed  far,  however,  I  think,  in  such  a  place  as  that;  so  be 
sure  and  find  it  before  I  see  you  in  Boston." 

He  had  hardly  gone,  and  it  wanted  a  few  minutes  only  of 
the  time  for  the  boat  to  start,  when  a  gay  group  of  fashionables 
made  their  appearance,  talking  and  laughing  too  loud,  as  it 
seemed  to  Gertrude,  to  be  well  bred;  and  conspicuous  among 
them  was  Miss  Clinton,  whose  companions  were  evidently  mak 
ing  her  the  subject  of  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  pleasantry,  by 
which,  although  she  feigned  to  be  teased  and  half  offended,  her 
smiling,  blushing  face  gave  evidence  that  she  felt  flattered  and 
pleased.  At  length,  the  significant  gestures  of  some  of  the 
party,  and  a  half-smothered  hush-h!  gave  intimation  of  the  ap 
proach  of  some  one  who  must  not  overhear  their  remarks ;  and 
presently  William  Sullivan,  with  a  travelling  bag  in  his  hand, 
a  heavy  shawl  thrown  over  one  arm,  and  his  countenance  grave, 
as  if  he  had  not  quite  recovered  from  the  chagrin  of  the  pre 
vious  evening,  appeared  in  sight,  passed  Gertrude,  whose  veil 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  372 

was  drawn  over  her  face,  and  joined  Isabel,  placing  his  burden 
on  a  chair  which  stood  near. 

He  had  hardly  commenced  speaking  to  Miss  Clinton,  how 
ever,  before  the  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  gave  notice  to  all 
but  the  passengers  to  quit  the  boat,  and  he  was  compelled  to 
make  a  hasty  movement  to  depart.  As  he  did  so,  he  drew  a 
step  nearer  Gertrude,  a  step  further  from  her  whom  he  was  ad 
dressing,  and  the  former  plainly  distinguished  the  closing  words 
of  his  remark :  "  Then,  if  you  will  do  your  best  to  return  on 
Thursday,  I  will  try  not  to  be  impatient  in  the  mean  time." 

A  moment  more,  and  the  boat  was  on  its  way ;  not,  however, 
until  a  tall  figure,  who  reached  the  landing  just  as  she  started, 
had,  to  the  horror  of  the  spectators,  daringly  leaped  the  gap 
that  already  divided  her  from  the  shore ;  after  which,  he  sought 
the  gentleman's  saloon,  threw  himself  upon  a  couch,  drew  a 
book  from  his  pocket,  and  commenced  reading. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  was  fairly  under  way,  and  quiet  pre 
vailed  in  their  neighborhood,  Emily  spoke  softly  to  Gertrude, 
and  said,  — 

"Didn't  I  just  now  hear  Isabel  Clinton's  voice?" 

"She  is  here,"  replied  Gertrude,  "on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  deck,  but  sitting  with  her  back  towards  us." 

"Didn't  she  see  us?" 

" I  believe  she  did,"  answered  Gertrude.  "  She  stood  looking 
this  way  while  her  party  were  arranging  their  seats." 

"And  then  chose  one  which  commanded  a  different  view?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  she  is  going  to  New  York  to  meet  Mrs.  Graham." 

"Very  possible,"  replied  Gertrude.  "I  didn't  think  of  it 
before." 

There  was  then  quite  a  pause.  Emily  appeared  to  be  en 
gaged  in  thought.  Presently  she  asked,  in  the  softest  of  whis 
pers,*"  Who  was  the  gentleman  who  came  and  spoke  to  her  just 
before  the  boat  started  ?  " 

"Willie,"  was  the  tremulous  response. 

Emily  pressed  Gertrude's  hand,  and  was  silent.  She,  too, 
had  overheard  his  farewell  remark,  and  felt  its  significance. 

Several  hours  passed  away,  and  they  had  proceeded  some  dis 
tance  down  the  river ;  for  the  motion  of  the  boat  was  rapid  — 
too  rapid,  as  it  seemed  to  Gertrude,  for  safety.  At  first  occu 
pied  by  her  own  thoughts,  and  unable  to  enjoy  the  beautiful 


374  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

scenery,  which  a  few  weeks  previously  had  caused  her  such 
keen  delight,  she  had  sat,  inattentive  to  all  around,  gazing  down 
into  the  deep  blue  water,  and  communing  with  her  own  heart. 
Gradually,  however,  she  was  led  to  observe  several  circum 
stances,  which  excited  so  much  curiosity,  and  finally  so  much 
alarm,  that,  effectually  aroused  from  the  train  of  reflections  she 
had  been  indulging,  she  had  leisure  only  to  take  into  view  her 
own  and  Emily's  present  situation,  and  its  probable  conse 
quences. 

Several  times,  since  they  left  Albany,  had  the  boat  in  which 
they  were  passengers  passed  and  repassed  another  of  similar 
size,  construction,  and  speed,  likewise  responsibly  charged  with 
busy,  living  freight,  and  bound  in  the  same  direction.  Occa 
sionally,  during  their  headlong  and  reckless  course,  the  conti 
guity  of  the  two  boats  was  such  as  to  excite  the  serious  alarm 
of  one  sex  and  the  unmeasured  censure  of  the  other.  The 
rumor  began  to  be  circulated  that  they  were  racing,  and  racing 
desperately.  Some  few,  regardless  of  danger,  and  entering 
upon  the  interest  of  the  chase  with  an  insane  and  foolish  excite 
ment,  watched  with  pleased  eagerness  the  mad  career  of  rival 
ambition;  but  by  far  the  majority  of  the  company,  including 
all  persons  of  reason  and  sense,  looked  on  in  indignation  and 
fear.  The  usual  stopping-places  on  the  river  were  either  reck 
lessly  passed  by,  or  only  paused  at,  while  with  indecent  haste 
passengers  were  shuffled  backwards  and  forwards,  at  the  risk  of 
life  and  limb,  their  baggage  (or  somebody's  else)  unceremoni 
ously  flung  after  them,  the  panting,  snorting  engine  in  the  mean 
time  bellowing  with  rage  at  the  check  thus  unwillingly  imposed 
upon  its  freedom.  Towards  noon  the  fever  of  agitation  had 
reached  its  height,  and  could  not  be  wholly  quieted  even  by  the 
assurance  from  headquarters  that  there  was  no  danger. 

Gertrude  sat  with  her  hand  locked  in  Emily's,  anxiously 
watching  every  indication  of  terror,  and  endeavoring  to  judge 
from  the  countenances  and  words  of  her  most  intelligent  look 
ing  fellow  travellers  the  actual  degree  of  their  insecurity.  Em 
ily,  shut  out  from  the  sight  of  all  that  was  going  on,  but 
rendered,  through  her  acute  hearing,  vividly  conscious  of  the 
prevailing  alarm,  was  perfectly  calm,  though  very  pale,  and 
from  time  to  time  questioned  Gertrude  concerning  the  vicinity 
of  the  other  boat,  a  collision  with  which  was  the  principal  cause 
of  fear. 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  375 

At  length  their  boat  for  a  few  moments  distanced  its  competi 
tor,  the  assurance  of  perfect  safety  was  impressively  asserted, 
anxiety  began  to  be  relieved,  and  most  of  the  passengers  being 
restored  to  their  wonted  composure,  the  various  parties  scat 
tered  about  the  deck  resumed  their  newspapers  or  their  con 
versation.  The  gay  group  to  which  Isabel  Clinton  belonged, 
several  of  whom  had  been  the  victims  of  nervous  agitation 
and  trembling,  seemed  reassured,  and  began  once  more  to  talk 
and  laugh  merrily.  Emily,  however,  still  looked  pallid  and,  as 
Gertrude  fancied,  a  little  faint.  "Let  us  go  below,  Emily," 
said  she ;  "  it  appears  now  to  be  very  quiet  and  safe.  There 
are  sofas  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  where  you  can  lie  down ;  and  we 
can  both  get  a  glass  of  water." 

Emily  assented,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  comfortably  reclin 
ing  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon,  where  she  and  Gertrude  remained 
undisturbed  until  dinner  time.  They  did  not  go  to  the  dinner 
table;  it  was  not  their  intention  from  the  first,  and,  after  the 
agitation  of  the  morning,  was  far  from  being  desirable.  So 
they  stayed  quietly  where  they  were,  while  the  greater  part  of 
the  passengers  crowded  from  every  part  of  the  boat,  to  invigo 
rate  themselves,  after  their  fright,  by  the  enjoyment  of  a  com 
fortable  meal;  which  they  had  reason  to  expect,  as  the  racing 
appeared  to  have  ceased,  and  everything  was  orderly  and  peace 
able. 

Gertrude  opened  her  travelling-basket,  and  took  out  the 
package  which  contained  their  luncheon.  It  was  not  one  of 
those  luncheons  which  careful  mothers  provide  for  their  travel 
ling  families,  choice  in  its  material,  and  tempting  in  its  arrange 
ment,  but  consisted  merely  of  such  dry  morsels  as  had  been 
hastily  collected  and  put  up  at  their  hotel  in  Albany,  by  Dr. 
Jeremy's  direction.  Gertrude  looked  from  the  little  withered 
slices  of  tongue  and  stale  bread  to  the  veteran  sponge  cakes 
which  completed  the  assortment,  and  was  hesitating  which  she 
could  most  conscientiously  recommend  to  Emily,  when  a  civil- 
looking  waiter  appeared,  bearing  a  huge  tray  of  refreshments, 
which  he  placed  upon  a  table  close  by,  at  the  same  time  turning 
to  Gertrude,  and  asking  if  there  was  anything  else  he  could 
serve  her  with. 

"This  is  not  for  us,"  said  Gertrude.  "You  have  made  a 
mistake. " 

"No  mistake,"  replied  the  man.     "Orders  was  for  de  blind 


376  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

lady  and  hansum  young  miss.  I  only  'beys  orders.  Any  ting 
f urder,  miss  ?  " 

Gertrude  dismissed  the  man  with  the  assurance  that  they 
wanted  nothing  more,  and  then,  turning  to  Emily,  asked,  with 
an  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  what  they  should  do  with  this 
Aladdin-like  repast. 

"Eat  it,  my  dear,  if  you  can,"  said  Emily.  "It  is  no  doubt 
meant  for  us." 

"  But  to  whom  are  we  indebted  for  it  ? " 

"To  my  blindness  and  your  beauty,  I  suppose,"  said  Em 
ily,  smiling.  She  then  continued,  with  wonderful  simplicity, 
"Perhaps  the  chief  steward,  or  master  of  ceremonies,  took  pity 
on  our  inability  to  come  to  dinner,  and  so  sent  the  dinner  to 
us.  At  any  rate,  my  child,  you  must  eat  it  before  it  is  cold." 

"I! "  said  Gertrude,  conscious  of  her  utter  want  of  appetite, 
"I  am  not  hungry;  but  I  will  select  a  nice  bit  for  you." 

The  sable  waiter,  when  he  came  to  remove  the  dishes,  really 
looked  sad  to  see  how  little  they  had  eaten.  Gertrude  drew 
out  her  purse,  and  after  bestowing  a  fee  upon  the  man,  inquired 
whom  she  should  pay  for  the  meal. 

"Pay,  miss!"  said  the  man,  grinning.  "Bless  my  stars!  de 
gentleman  pays  for  all !  " 

"Who?  What  gentleman?"  asked  Gertrude,  in  surprise. 

But  before  the  man  could  give  her  any  reply,  another  white- 
aproned  individual  appeared,  and  beckoned  to  his  fellow  waiter, 
who  thereupon  snatched  up  his  tray  and  trotted  off,  bending 
beneath  its  weight,  and  leaving  Gertrude  and  Emily  to  wonder 
who  the  benevolent  gentleman  might  be. 

They  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  unexpected  at 
tention  was  due  to  the  thoughtfulness  of  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  must 
have  given  orders  to  that  effect  before  he  left  the  boat;  and 
great  was  the  unmerited  praise  and  the  undeserved  gratitude 
which  the  doctor  received  that  day,  for  an  act  of  considerate 
politeness  of  which  the  old  gentleman,  with  all  his  kindness  of 
heart,  would  never  have  dreamed. 

Dinner  concluded,  Emily  again  lay  down,  advised  Gertrude 
to  do  the  same,  and  supposing  that  her  advice  was  being  fol 
lowed,  slept  for  an  hour ;  while  her  companion  sat  by,  watching 
the  peaceful  slumber  of  her  friend,  and  carefully  and  noiselessly 
brushing  away  every  fly  that  threatened  to  disturb  a  repose 
much  needed  by  Miss  Graham,  who  could,  in  her  feeble  state 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  377 

of  health,  ill  afford  to  spare  the  rest  she  had  been  deprived  of 
for  one  or  two  previous  nights. 

"  What  time  is  it  1  "  asked  she,  on  awaking. 

"Nearly  a  quarter  past  three,"  replied  Gertrude,  glancing 
at  her  watch  (a  beautiful  gift  from  a  class  of  her  former 
pupils). 

Emily  started  up.  "We  can't  be  far  from  New  York,"  said 
she ;  "  where  are  we  now  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  replied  Gertrude;  "I  think  we 
i  must  be  near  the  Palisades ;  if  you  will  stay  here,  I  will  go  and 
see."  She  passed  across  the  saloon,  and  was  about  ascending 
the  staircase,  when  she  was  startled  and  alarmed  by  a  rushing 
sound,  mingled  with  the  hurried  tread  of  feet.  She  kept  on, 
however,  though  once  or  twice  jostled  by  persons  with  fright 
ened  faces,  who  crowded  past  and  pressed  forward  to  learn  the 
cause  of  the  commotion.  She  had  just  gained  the  head  of  the 
stairway,  and  was  looking  fearfully  round  her,  when  a  man 
rushed  past,  gasping  for  breath,  his  face  of  an  ashen  paleness, 
and  shrieking  the  horrid  word  of  alarm  —  fire  —  fire ! 

A  second  more,  and  a  scene  of  dismay  and  confusion  ensued 
too  terrible  for  description.  Shrieks  rose  upon  the  air,  groans 
and  cries  of  despair  burst  forth  from  hearts  that  were  breaking 
with  fear  for  others,  or  maddened  at  the  certainty  of  their  own 
destruction.  Each  called  upon  each  for  help,  when  all  were 
alike  helpless.  Those  who  had  never  prayed  before  poured  out 
their  souls  in  the  fervent  ejaculation,  "O,  my  God!"  Many 
a  brain  reeled  in  that  time  of  darkness  and  peril.  Many  a  brave 
spirit  sickened  and  sunk  under  the  tearfulness  of  the  hour. 

Gertrude  straightened  her  slight  figure,  and  with  her  dark 
eyes  almost  starting  from  their  sockets,  gazed  around  her  upon 
every  side.  All  was  alike  tumult;  but  the  destroyer  was  as 
yet  discernible  in  one  direction  only.  Towards  the  centre  of 
the  boat,  where  the  machinery,  heated  to  the  last  degree,  had 
fired  the  parched  and  inflammable  vessel,  a  huge  volume  of 
flame  was  already  visible,  darting  out  its  fiery  fangs,  and  caus 
ing  the  stoutest  hearts  to  shrink  and  crouch  in  horror.  She 
gave  but  one  glance;  then  bounded  down  the  stairs,  bent  solely 
on  rejoining  Emily.  But  she  was  arrested  at  the  very  onset. 
One  step  only  had  she  taken  when  she  felt  herself  encircled  by 
a  pair  of  powerful  arms,  and  a  movement  made  to  again  rush 
with  her  upon  deck;  while  a  familiar  voice  gasped  forth  the 


378  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

words,  "Gertrude,   my  child!  my  own  darling!     Be  quiet  — 
be  quiet !     I  will  save  you !  " 

Well  might  he  urge  her  to  be  quiet,  for  she  was  struggling 
madly.  "No,  no!"  shouted  she;  "Emily!  Emily!  Let  me 
die !  let  me  die !  but  I  must  find  Emily !  " 

"Where  is  she? "  asked  Mr.  Phillips;  for  it  was  he. 

"There,  there,"  pointed  Gertrude,  — " in  the  cabin.  Let 
me  go !  let  me  go !  " 

He  cast  one  look  around  him ;  then  said,  in  a  firm  tone,  "  Be 
calm,  my  child !  I  can  save  you  both ;  follow  me  closely !  " 

With  a  leap  he  cleared  the  staircase,  and  rushed  into  the 
cabin.  In  the  farthest  corner  knelt  Emily,  her  head  thrown 
back,  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  face  like  the  face  of  an  angel. 

Gertrude  .and  Mr.  Phillips  were  by  her  side  in  an  instant. 
He  stooped  to  lift  her  in  his  arms,  Gertrude  at  the  same  time 
exclaiming,  "  Come,  Emily,  come !  He  will  save  us !  " 

But  Emily  resisted.  "  Leave  me,  Gertrude  —  leave  me,  and 
save  yourselves !  0 !  "  said  she,  looking  imploringly  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger,  '  leave  me,  and  save  my  child. "  Ere  the  words 
had  left  her  lips,  however,  she  was  borne  halfway  across  the 
saloon,  Gertrude  following  closely. 

"  If  we  can  cross  to  the  bows  of  the  boat,  we  are  safe ! "  said 
Mr.  Phillips  in  a  husky  voice. 

To  do  so,  however,  proved  impossible.  The  whole  centre  of 
the  boat  was  now  one  sheet  of  flame.  "  Good  Heavens ! "  ex 
claimed  he,  "  we  are  too  late !  we  must  go  back !  " 

A  moment  more,  and  they  had  with  much  difficulty  regained 
the  long  saloon.  And  now  the  boat,  which  as  soon  as  the  fire 
was  discovered,  had  been  turned  towards  the  shore,  struck  upon 
the  rocks  and  parted  in  the  middle.  Her  bows  were  conse 
quently  brought  near  to  the  land ;  near  enough  to  almost  insure 
the  safety  of  such  persons  as  were  at  that  part  of  the  vessel. 
But,  alas  for  those  near  the  stern!  which  was  far  out  in  the 
river,  while  the  breeze  which  blew  fresh  from  the  shore  fostered 
and  spread  the  devouring  flame  in  the  very  direction  to  place 
those  who  yet  clung  to  the  broken  fragment  between  two  equally 
fatal  elements. 

Mr.  Phillips 's  first  thought,  on  gaining  the  saloon,  was  to 
beat  down  a  window  sash,  spring  upon  the  guards,  and  drag 
Emily  and  Gertrude  after  him.  Some  ropes  hung  upon  the 
guards;  he  seized  one,  and  with  the  ease  and  skill  of  an  old 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  379 

sailor  made  it  fast  to  the  boat ;  then  turned  to  Gertrude,  who 
stood  firm  and  unwavering  by  his  side. 

"Gertrude,"  said  he,  speaking  distinctly  and  steadily,  "I 
shall  swim  to  the  shore  with  Emily.  If  the  fire  comes  too 
near,  cling  to  the  guards ;  as  a  last  chance,  hold  on  to  the  rope. 
Keep  your  veil  flying;  I  shall  return." 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  Emily.      "  Gertrude,  go  first !  " 

" Hush,  Emily ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "we  shall  both  be 
saved. " 

"Cling  to  my  shoulder  in  the  water,  Emily,"  said  Mr.  Phil 
lips,  utterly  regardless  of  her  protestations.  He  took  her  once 
more  in  his  arms ;  there  was  a  splash,  and  they  were  gone.  At 
the  same  instant  Gertrude  was  seized  from  behind.  She  turned, 
and  found  herself  grasped  by  Isabel  Clinton,  who,  kneeling 
upon  the  platform,  and  frantic  with  terror,  was  clinging  so 
closely  to  her  as  utterly  to  disable  them  both ;  at  the  same  time 
shrieking  in  pitiable  tones,  "0  Gertrude!  Gertrude!  save 
me!" 

Gertrude  tried  to  lift  her  up,  but  she  was  immovable ;  and 
without  making  the  slightest  effort  to  help  herself,  was  madly 
winding  Gertrude's  thick  travelling-dress  around  her  person, 
as  if  for  a  protection  from  the  flames;  while  ever,  as  they 
darted  forth  new  and  nearer  lightnings,  the  frightened  girl 
would  cling  more  wildly  to  her  companion  in  danger,  at  the 
same  time  praying,  with  piercing  shrieks,  that  she  would  help 
and  save  her. 

But  so  long  as  Gertrude  stood  thus  imprisoned  and  restrained 
by  the  arms  which  were  clasped  entirely  around  her  she  was 
powerless  to  do  anything  for  her  own  or  Isabel's  salvation. 
She  looked  forth  in  the  direction  Mr.  Phillips  had  taken,  and 
to  her  joy  she  saw  him  returning.  He  had  deposited  Emily 
on  board  a  boat,  which  was  fortunately  at  hand,  and  was  now 
approaching  to  claim  another  burden.  At  the  same  instant,  a 
volume  of  flame  swept  so  near  the  spot  where  the  two  girls  were 
stationed,  that  Gertrude,  who  was  standing  upright,  felt  the 
scorching  heat,  and  both  were  almost  suffocated  with  smoke. 

And  now  a  new  and  heroic  resolution  took  possession  of  the 
mind  of  Gertrude.  One  of  them  could  be  saved,  for  Mr.  Phil 
lips  was  within  a  few  rods  of  the  wreck.  It  should  be  Isabel ! 
She  had  called  on  her  for  protection,  and  it  should  not  be  de 
nied  her !  Moreover,  Willie  loved  Isabel.  Willie  would  weep 


380  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

for  her  loss,  and  that  must  not  be.  He  would  not  weep  for 
Gertrude  —  at  least  not  much ;  and  if  one  must  die,  it  should 
be  she. 

With  Gertrude,  to  resolve  was  to  do.  "Isabel,"  said  she  in 
a  tone  of  such  severity  as  one  might  employ  towards  a  refrac 
tory  child,  with  whom,  as  in  this  instance,  milder  remonstrances 
had  failed,  "Isabel,  do  you  hear  me1?  Stand  up  on  your  feet; 
do  as  I  tell  you,  and  you  shall  be  saved.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Isabel?" 

She  heard,  shuddered,  but  did  not  move. 

Gertrude  stooped  down,  and  forcibly  wrenching  apart  the 
hands  which  were  convulsively  clenched,  said,  with  a  sternness 
which  necessity  alone  extorted  from  her,  "  Isabel,  if  you  do  as 
I  tell  you,  you  will  be  on  shore  in  five  minutes,  safe  and  well ; 
but  if  you  stay  there  behaving  like  a  foolish  child,  we  shall 
both  be  burnt  to  death.  For  mercy's  sake,  get  up  quickly  and 
listen  to  me ! " 

Isabel  rose,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Gertrude's  calm,  steadfast 
face,  and  said  in  a  moaning  tone,  "What  must  I  do?  I  will 
try." 

"  Do  you  see  that  person  swimming  this  way  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  will  come  to  this  spot.  Hold  fast  to  that  piece  of  rope 
and  I  will  let  you  gradually  down  to  the  water.  But,  stay !  " 
and  snatching  the  deep  blue  veil  from  her  own  head,  she  tied 
it  round  the  neck  and  flung  it  over  the  fair  hair  of  Isabel. 
Mr.  Phillips  was  within  a  rod  or  two.  "Now,  Isabel,  now!" 
exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  or  you  will  be  too  late ! "  Isabel  took 
the  rope  between  her  hands,  but  shrunk  back,  appalled  at  the 
sight  of  the  water.  One  more  hot  burst  of  fire,  however,  which 
issued  forth  through  the  window,  gave  her  renewed  courage  to 
brave  a  mere  seeming  danger;  and  aided  by  Gertrude,  who 
helped  her  over  the  guards,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  let  down 
to  the  water's  edge.  Mr.  Phillips  was  fortunately  just  in  time 
to  receive  her,  for  she  was  so  utterly  exhaused  with  fear  that 
she  could  not  have  clung  long  to  the  rope.  Gertrude  had  no 
opportunity  to  follow  them  with  her  eye;  her  own  situation, 
it  may  well  be  believed,  was  now  all  engrossing.  The  flames 
nad  reached  her.  She  could  hardly  breathe,  so  enveloped  was 
she  in  clouds  of  dark  smoke,  which  had  more  than  once  been 
relieved  by  streaks  of  fire,  which  had  darted  out  within  a  foot 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  381 

of  her.  She  could  hesitate  no  longer.  She  seized  the  piece  of 
rope,  now  left  vacant  by  Isabel,  who  was  rapidly  approaching 
a  place  of  safety,  and  grasping  it  with  all  her  might,  leaped 
over  the  side  of  the  fast- consuming  vessel.  How  long  her 
strength  would  have  enabled  her  thus  to  cling,  —  how  long  the 
guards,  as  yet  unapproached  by  the  fire,  would  have  continued 
a  sure  support  for  the  cable,  —  there  was  no  opportunity  to 
test;  for  just  as  her  feet  touched  the  cold  surface  of  the  river, 
the  huge  wheel,  which  was  but  a  little  distance  from  where  she 
hung,  gave  one  sudden,  expiring  revolution,  sounding  like  a 
death  dirge  through  the  water,  which  came  foaming  and  dash 
ing  up  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  as  it  swept  away  again, 
bore  with  it  the  light  form  of  Gertrude. 


382  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XLII 

'T  is  Reason's  part 
To  govern  and  to  guard  the  heart ; 
To  lull,  the  wayward  soul  to  rest, 
When  hopes  and  fears  distract  the  breast. 

COTTON. 

LET  us  now  revisit  calmer  scenes,  and  turn  our  eyes  towards 
the  quiet,  familiar  country  seat  of  Mr.  Graham. 

The  old  gentleman  himself,  wearied  with  travels  and  society 
but  little  congenial  to  his  years,  is  pacing  up  and  down  his  gar 
den  walks,  stopping  now  and  then  to  observe  the  growth  of 
some  favorite  tree,  or  the  overgrowth  of  some  petted  shrub, 
whose  neglected,  drooping  twigs  call  for  the  master's  pruning 
hand;  his  contented,  satisfied  countenance  denoting  plainly 
enough  how  rejoiced  he  is  to  find  himself  once  more  in  his 
cherished  homestead.  Perhaps  he  would  not  like  to  acknow 
ledge  it,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  no  small  part  of  his 
satisfaction  arises  from  the  circumstance  that  the  repose  and 
seclusion  of  his  household  is  rendered  complete  and  secure  by 
the  temporary  absence  of  its  bustling,  excitable  mistress,  whom 
he  has  left  behind  him  in  New  York.  There  is  something 
pleasant,  too,  in  being  able  to  indulge  his  imagination  so  far  as 
almost  to  deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  the  good  old  times 
have  come  back  again  when  he  was  his  own  master ;  for  to  tell 
the  truth,  Mrs.  Graham  takes  advantage  of  his  years  and  grow 
ing  infirmities,  and  rules  him  with  wonderful  tact. 

Emily  and  Gertrude,  too,  are  closely  associated  with  those 
good  old  times ;  and  it  adds  greatly  to  the  delusion  of  his  fancy 
to  dwell  upon  the  certainty  that  they  are  both  in  the  house, 
and  that  he  shall  see  them  at  dinner;  a  cosy,  comfortable  din 
ner,  at  which  Mrs.  Ellis  will  preside  with  her  wonted  formality 
and  precision,  and  which  no  noisy,  intruding  upstarts  will  ven 
ture  to  interrupt  or  disturb. 

Yes,  Gertrude  is  there,  as  well  as  the  rest,  saved  (she  hardly 
knew  how)  from  the  watery  grave  that  threatened  and  almost 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  383 

engulfed  her,  and  established  once  more  in  the  peaceful,  vener 
able  spot,  now  the  dearest  to  her  on  earth. 

When  with  some  difficulty  restored  to  the  consciousness 
which  had  utterly  forsaken  her  in  the  protracted  struggle  be 
tween  death  and  life,  she  was  informed  that  she  had  been  found 
and  picked  up  by  some  humane  individuals,  who  had  hastily 
pushed  a  boat  from  the  shore,  and  aided  in  the  rescue  of  the 
sufferers ;  that  she  was  clinging  to  a  chair,  which  she  had  prob 
ably  grasped  when  washed  away  by  the  sudden  rushing  of  the 
water,  and  that  her  situation  was  such  that,  a  moment  more, 
and  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  save  her  from  the  flames, 
close  to  which  she  was  drifting. 

But  of  all  this  she  had  herself  no  recollection.  From  the 
moment  when  she  committed  her  light  weight  to  the  frail  ten 
ure  of  the  rope,  until  she  opened  her  eyes  in  a  quiet  spot, 
and  saw  Emily  leaning  anxiously  over  the  bed  upon  which  she 
lay,  all  had  been  a  blank  to  her  senses.  A  few  hours  from  the 
time  of  the  terrible  catastrophe  brought  Mr.  Graham  to  the 
scene,  and  the  next  day  restored  all  three  in  safety  to  the  long- 
deserted  old  mansion  house  in  D . 

This  respectable,  venerable  habitation  and  its  adjoining 
grounds  wore  nearly  the  same  aspect  as  when  they  met  the 
admiring  eyes  of  Gerty  on  the  first  visit  that  she  made  Miss 
Graham  in  her  early  childhood,  —  that  long-expected  and  keenly 
enjoyed  visit,  which  proved  a  lasting  topic  for  her  youthful 
enthusiasm  to  dwell  upon. 

The  great  elm-trees,  casting  their  deep  shade  upon  the  green 
and  velvety  lawn  in  front ;  the  neat,  smooth  gravel  walk,  which 
led  to  the  doorstep,  and  then  wound  off  in  separate  directions 
into  the  mass  of  embowered  shrubbery  on  the  right,  and  the 
peach  orchard  on  the  left;  the  old  arbor,  with  its  luxuriant 
growth  of  woodbine ;  the  large  summer-house,  with  its  knotted, 
untrimmed,  rustic  pillars;  the  little  fish  pond  and  fountain; 
and  especially  the  flower  garden,  during  the  last  season  nearly 
restored,  by  Gertrude's  true  friend  George,  to  its  original  ap 
pearance,  when  under  her  superintendence,  —  all  had  the  same 
friendly,  familiar  look  as  during  the  first  happy  summers,  when 
Emily,  sitting  in  her  garden  chair  beneath  the  wide-spreading 
tulip-tree,  listened  with  delight  to  the  cheerful  voice,  the  merry 
laugh,  and  the  light  step  of  the  joyous  little  gardener,  who,  as 
she  moved  about  in  her  favorite  element  among  the  flowers, 


384  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

seemed  to  her  affectionate,  loving  blind  friend  the  sweetest  Flora 
of  them  all. 

Now  and  then  a  stray  robin,  the  last  of  the  numerous  throng 
that  had  flocked  to  the  cherry  feast  and  departed  long  ago,  came 
hopping  across  the  paths,  and  over  the  neatly  trimmed  box, 
lifting  his  head,  and  looking  about  him  with  an  air  that  seemed 
to  say,  "It  is  time  for  me,  too,  to  be  off."  A  family  of  squir 
rels,  on  the  other  hand,  old  pets  of  Gertrude's,  whom  she  loved 
to  watch  as  they  played  in  the  willow-tree  opposite  her  window, 
were  just  gathering  in  their  harvest,  and  were  busily  journeying 
up  and  down,  each  with  a  nut  in  its  mouth  (for  there  were  nut- 
trees  in  that  garden,  and  quiet  corners,  such  as  squirrels  love). 
Last  year  they  did  not  come,  —  at  least,  they  did  not  stay,  — 
for  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  new  gardener  voted  them  a  nuisance ; 
but  this  year  they  had  had  it  all  their  own  way,  and  were  lay 
ing  up  rich  stores  for  the  coming  winter. 

The  old  house  itself  had  a  look  of  contentment  and  repose. 
The  hall  door  stood  wide  open.  Mr.  Graham's  arm-chair  was 
in  its  usual  place;  Gertrude's  birds,  of  which  Mrs.  Ellis  had 
taken  excellent  care,  were  hopping  about  on  the  slender  perches 
of  the  great  Indian  cage  which  hung  on  the  wide  piazza.  The 
old  house  dog  lay  stretched  in  the  sun,  sure  that  nobody  would 
molest  him.  Plenty  of  flowers  once  more  graced  the  parlor, 
and  all  was  very  still,  very  quiet,  and  very  comfortable;  and 
Mr.  Graham  thought  so,  as  he  came  up  the  steps,  patted  the 
dog,  whistled  to  the  birds,  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair,  and  took 
the  morning  paper  from  the  hand  of  the  neat  housemaid,  who 
came  bringing  it  across  the  hall. 

The  dear  old  place  was  the  dear  old  place  still.  Time  seemed 
only  to  lend  it  additional  grace,  to  give  it  an  air  of  greater 
peace,  seclusion,  and  repose. 

But  how  is  it  with  the  inmates  ? 

Mr.  Graham,  as  we  have  already  hinted,  has  been  having 
new  experiences;  and  although  some  features  of  his  character 
are  too  closely  inwrought  to  be  ever  wholly  eradicated,  he  is, 
in  many  respects,  a  changed  man.  The  time  had  once  been 
when  he  would  have  resisted  courageously  every  innovation 
upon  his  domestic  prejudices  and  comforts;  but  old  age  and  ill 
health  had  somewhat  broken  his  spirit  and  subdued  his  hith 
erto  invincible  will.  Just  at  this  crisis,  too,  he  united  his  for 
tunes  with  one  who  had  sufficient  energy  of  purpose,  combined 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  385 

with  just  enough  good  nature  and  tact,  to  gain  her  point  on 
every  occasion  when  she  thought  it  material  to  do  so.  She  in 
dulged  him,  to  be  sure,  in  his  favorite  hobbies,  allowed  him  to 
continue  in  the  fond  belief  that  his  sway  (when  he  chose  to  ex 
ercise  it)  was  indisputable,  and  yet  contrived  to  decide  herself 
in  all  important  matters,  and  had  at  last  driven  him  to  such 
extremity  that  he  had  taken  it  for  his  maxim  to  get  what  com 
fort  he  could,  and  let  things  take  their  course. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  looked  forward  to  a  few  weeks 
of  old-fashioned  enjoyment  much  as  a  schoolboy  does  to  his 
vacation. 

Emily  is  sitting  in  her  own  room,  carelessly  clad  in  a  loose 
wrapper.  She  is  paler  than  ever,  and  her  face  has  an  anxious, 
troubled  expression.  Every  time  the  door  opens,  she  starts, 
trembles,  a  sudden  flush  overspreads  her  face,  and  twice  already 
during  the  morning  she  has  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  Every 
exertion,  even  that  of  dressing,  seems  a  labor  to  her;  she  can 
not  listen  to  Gertrude's  reading,  but  will  constantly  interrupt 
her,  to  ask  questions  concerning  the  burning  boat,  her  own  and 
others'  rescue,  and  every  circumstance  connected  with  the  terri 
ble  scene  of  agony  and  death.  Her  nervous  system  is  evidently 
fearfully  shattered,  and  Gertrude  looks  at  her  and  weeps,  and 
wonders  to  see  how  her  wonted  calmness  and  composure  have 
forsaken  her. 

They  have  been  together  since  breakfast,  but  Emily  will 
not  allow  Gertrude  to  stay  with  her  any  longer.  She  must  go 
away  and  walk,  or  at  least  change  the  scene.  She  may  come 
back  in  an  hour  and  help  her  dress  for  dinner,  —  a  ceremony 
which  Miss  Graham  will  by  no  means  omit,  her  chief  desire 
seeming  to  be  to  maintain  the  appearance  of  health  and  happi 
ness  in  the  presence  of  her  father.  Gertrude  feels  that  Emily 
is  in  earnest,  —  that  she  really  wishes  to  be  left  alone ;  and  be 
lieving  that,  for  the  first  time,  her  presence  even  is  burdensome, 
she  retires  to  her  own  room,  leaving  Emily  to  bow  her  head 
upon  her  hands,  and  for  the  third  time  utter  a  few  hysterical 
sobs. 

Gertrude  is  immediately  followed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  shuts 
the  door,  seats  herself,  and  with  a  manner  of  her  own,  alone 
sufficient  to  excite  alarm,  adds  to  the  poor  girl's  fear  and  dis 
tress  by  declaiming  at  length  upon  the  dreadful  effect  the  recol 
lection  of  that  shocking  accident  is  having  upon  poor  Emily. 


386  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"She  *s  completely  upset,"  is  the  housekeeper's  closing  remark, 
"and  if  she  don't  begin  to  get  better  in  a  day  or  two,  I  don't 
hesitate  to  say  there  's  no  knowing  what  the  consequences  may 
be.  Emily  is  feeble,  and  not  fit  to  travel;  I  wish,  for  my  part, 
she  had  stayed  at  home.  I  don't  approve  of  travelling,  espe 
cially  in  these  shocking  dangerous  times." 

Fortunately  for  poor  Gertrude,  Mrs.  Ellis  is  at  length  sum 
moned  to  the  kitchen,  and  she  is  left  to  reflect  upon  the  strange 
circumstances  of  the  last  few  days,  —  days  fraught  to  her  with 
matter  of  thought  for  years,  if  so  long  a  time  had  been  allowed 
her.  A  moment,  however,  and  she  is  again  interrupted.  The 
housemaid  who  carried  Mr.  Graham  his  paper  has  something 
for  her,  too.  A  letter !  With  a  trembling  hand  she  receives 
it,  scarcely  daring  to  look  at  the  writing  or  postmark.  Her 
first  thought  is  of  Willie ;  but  before  she  could  indulge  either 
a  hope  or  a  fear  on  that  score  the  illusion  is  dispelled,  for  though 
the  postmark  is  New  York,  and  he  might  be  there,  the  hand 
writing  is  wholly  strange.  Another  idea,  of  scarcely  less  mo 
ment,  flashes  into  her  mind,  and  hardly  able  to  breathe  from 
the  violence  of  the  emotions  by  which  she  is  oppressed,  she 
breaks  the  seal  and  reads :  — 

MY  DARLING  GERTRUDE,  —  My  much-loved  child,  —  for  such 
you  indeed  are,  though  a  father's  agony  of  fear  and  despair  alone 
wrung  from  me  the  words  that  claimed  you.  It  was  no  madness 
that,  in  the  dark  hour  of  danger,  compelled  me  to  clasp  you  to 
my  heart  and  call  you  mine.  A  dozen  times  before  had  I  been 
seized  by  the  same  emotion,  and  as  often  had  it  been  subdued 
and  smothered.  And  even  now  I  would  crush  the  promptings 
of  nature,  and  depart  and  weep  my  poor  life  away  alone ;  but  the 
voice  within  me  has  spoken  once,  and  cannot  again  be  silenced. 
Had  I  seen  you  happy,  gay,  and  light  hearted,  I  would  not  have 
asked  to  share  your  joy,  far  less  would  I  have  cast  a  shadow 
on  your  path;  but  you  are  sad  and  troubled,  my  poor  child, 
and  your  grief  unites  the  tie  between  us  closer  than  that  of 
kindred,  and  makes  you  a  thousand  times  my  daughter;  for 
I  am  a  wretched,  weary  man,  and  know  how  to  feel  for  others7 
woe. 

You  have  a  kind  and  a  gentle  heart,  my  child.  You  have 
wept  once  for  the  stranger's  sorrows,  —  will  you  now  refuse  to 
pity,  if  you  cannot  love,  the  solitary  parent,  who,  with  a  break- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  387 

ing  heart  and  a  trembling  hand,  writes  the  ill-fated  word  that 
dooms  him,  perhaps,  to  the  hatred  and  contempt  of  the  only 
being  on  earth  with  whom  he  can  claim  the  fellowship  of  a 
natural  tie  1  Twice  before  have  I  striven  to  utter  it,  and  lay 
ing  down  my  pen,  have  shrunk  from  the  cruel  task.  But  hard 
as  it  is  to  speak,  I  find  it  harder  to  still  the  beating  of  my  rest 
less  heart;  therefore  listen  to  me,  though  it  may  be  for  the  last 
time.  Is  there  one  being  on  earth  whom  you  shudder  to  think 
of  1  Is  there  one  associated  only  in  your  mind  with  deeds  of 
darkness  and  of  shame?  Is  there  one  name  which  you  have 
from  your  childhood  learned  to  abhor  and  hate;  and  in  propor 
tion  as  you  love  your  best  friend,  have  you  been  taught  to 
shrink  from  and  despise  her  worst  enemy  ?  It  cannot  be  other 
wise.  Ah !  I  tremble  to  think  how  my  child  will  recoil  from 
her  father  when  she  learns  the  secret,  so  long  preserved,  so  sor 
rowfully  revealed,  that  he  is 

PHILIP  AMORY! 

As  Gertrude  looked  up  when  she  had  finished  reading  this 
strange  and  unintelligible  letter,  her  countenance  expressed  only 
complete  bewilderment;  her,  eyes  glistened  with  great  tears, 
her  face  was  flushed  with  wonder  and  excitement,  but  she  was 
evidently  at  a  total  loss  to  account  for  the  meaning  of  the  stran 
ger's  words. 

She  sat  for  an  instant  wildly  gazing  into  vacancy,  then 
springing  suddenly  up  with  the  letter  grasped  in  one  hand,  ran 
across  the  entry  towards  Emily's  room,  to  share  with  her  the 
wonderful  contents,  and  eagerly  ask  her  opinion  of  their  hidden 
meaning.  She  stopped,  however,  when  her  hand  was  on  the 
door-lock.  Emily  was  already  ill,  the  victim  of  agitation  and 
excitement ;  it  would  not  do  to  distress  or  even  disturb  her ;  and 
retreating  to  her  own  room  as  hastily  as  she  had  come,  Gertrude 
once  more  sat  down,  to  reperuse  the  singular  words,  and  en 
deavor  to  find  some  clue  to  the  mystery. 

That  Mr.  Phillips  and  the  letter  writer  were  identical  she  at 
once  perceived.  It  was  no  slight  impression  that  his  exclama 
tion  and  conduct  during  the  time  of  their  imminent  danger  on 
board  the  boat  had  left  upon  the  mind  of  Gertrude.  During 
the  three  days  that  had  succeeded  the  accident,  the  words  "My 
child !  my  own  darling ! "  had  been  continually  ringing  in  her 
ears  and  haunting  her  imagination.  Now  the  blissful  idea 


388  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

would  flash  upon  her  that  the  nohle,  disinterested  stranger,  who 
had  risked  his  life  so  daringly  in  her  own  and  Emily's  cause, 
might  indeed  be  her  father;  and  every  fibre  of  her  being  had 
thrilled  at  the  thought,  while  her  head  grew  dizzy  and  confused 
with  the  strong  sensation  of  hope  that  agitated  and  almost  over 
whelmed  her  brain.  Then  again,  she  had  repulsed  the  idea,  as 
suggesting  only  the  height  of  impossibility  and  folly,  and  had 
compelled  herself  to  take  a  more  rational  and  probable  view  of 
the  matter,  and  believe  that  the  stranger's  words  and  conduct 
were  merely  the  result  of  powerful  and  overwhelming  excite 
ment,  or  possibly  the  indications  of  a  somewhat  disordered  and 
unsettled  imagination,  —  a  supposition  which  much  of  his  pre 
vious  behavior  seemed  to  warrant. 

Her  first  inquiries,  on  recovering  consciousness,  had  been  for 
the  preserver  of  Emily  and  Isabel,  but  he  had  disappeared ;  no 
trace  of  him  could  be  obtained,  and  Mr.  Graham  soon  arriving 
and  hurrying  them  from  the  neighborhood,  she  had  been  reluc 
tantly  compelled  to  abandon  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  and 
was  consequently  left  entirely  to  her  own  vague  and  unsatisfac 
tory  conjectures. 

The  same  motives  which  now  induced  her  to  forbear  consult-  i 
ing  Emily  concerning  the  mysterious  epistle  had  hitherto  pre 
vented  her  from  imparting  the  secret  of  Mr.  Phillips'  a  inexpli 
cable  language  and  manner ;  but  she  had  dwelt  upon  them  none 
the  less,  and  day  and  night  had  silently  pondered,  not  only 
upon  recent  events,  but  on  the  entire  demeanor  of  this  strange 
man  towards  her,  ever  since  the  earliest  moment  of  their  ac 
quaintance. 

The  first  perusal  of  the  letter  served  only  to  excite  and  alarm 
her.  It  neither  called  forth  distinct  ideas  and  impressions,  nor 
added  life  and  coloring  to  those  she  had  already  formed. 

But  as  she  sat  for  more  than  an  hour  gazing  upon  the  page, 
which  she  read  and  re-read  until  it  was  blistered  and  blotted 
with  the  great  tears  that  fell  upon  it,  the  varying  expression  of 
her  face  denoted  the  emotions  that,  one  after  another,  possessed 
her;  and  which,  at  last,  snatching  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  com 
mitted  to  writing  with  a  feverish  rapidity  that  betrayed  how 
deeply,  almost  fearfully,  her  whole  being,  heart,  mind,  and 
body,  bent  and  staggered  beneath  the  weight  of  contending 
hopes,  anxieties,  warmly  enkindled  affections,  and  gloomy  up 
starting  fears. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  389 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  FATHER,  —  If  I  may  dare  to  believe  that 
you  are  so,  and  if  not  that,  my  best  of  friends,  —  how  shall  I 
write  to  you,  and  what  shall  I  say,  since  all  your  words  are  a 
mystery !  Father !  blessed  word !  O,  that  my  noble  friend 
were  indeed  my  father !  Yet  tell  me,  tell  me,  how  can  this  be  ? 
Alas !  I  feel  a  sad  presentiment  that  the  bright  dream  is  all  an 
illusion,  an  error.  I  never  before  remember  to  have  heard  the 
name  of  Philip  Amory.  My  sweet,  pure,  and  gentle  Emily  has 
taught  me  to  love  all  the  world;  and  hatred  and  contempt  are 
foreign  to  her  nature  and,  I  trust,  to  my  own.  Moreover,  she 
has  not  an  enemy  in  the  wide  world ;  never  had,  or  could  have. 
One  might  as  well  war  with  an  angel  of  Heaven  as  with  a  crea 
ture  so  holy  and  lovely  as  she. 

Nor  bid  me  think  of  yourself  as  a  man  of  sin  and  crime.  It 
cannot  be.  It  would  be  wronging  a  noble  nature  to  believe 
it,  and  I  say  again  it  cannot  be.  Gladly  would  I  trust  myself 
to  repose  on  the  bosom  of  such  a  parent;  gladly  would  I  hail 
the  sweet  duty  of  consoling  the  sorrows  of  one  so  self-sacri 
ficing,  so  kind,  so  generous ;  whose  life  has  been  so  freely  offered 
for  me,  and  for  others  whose  existence  was  dearer  to  me  than 
my  own.  When  you  took  me  in  your  arms  and  called  me  your 
child,  your  darling  child,  I  fancied  that  the  excitement  of  that 
dreadful  scene  had  for  the  moment  disturbed  your  mind  and 
brain  so  far  as  to  invest  me  with  a  false  identity,  —  perhaps 
confound  my  image  with  that  of  some  loved  and  absent  one. 
I  now  believe  that  it  was  no  sudden  madness,  but  rather  that  I 
have  been  all  along  mistaken  for  another,  whose  glad  office  it 
may  perhaps  be  to  cheer  a  father's  saddened  life,  while  I  re 
main  unrecognized,  unsought,  —  the  fatherless,  motherless  one 
I  am  accustomed  to  consider  myself.  If  you  have  lost  a  daugh 
ter,  God  grant  she  may  be  restored  to  you,  to  love  you  as  I 
would  do,  were  I  so  blessed  as  to  be  that  daughter !  And  I, 
—  consider  me  not  a  stranger ;  let  me  be  your  child  in  heart ; 
let  me  love,  pray,  and  weep  for  you ;  let  me  pour  out  my  soul 
in  thankfulness  for  the  kind  care  and  sympathy  you  have  al 
ready  given  me.  And  yet,  though  I  disclaim  it  all,  and  dare 
not,  yes,  dare  not  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  thought  that  you 
are  otherwise  than  deceived  in  believing  me  your  child,  my 
heart  leaps  up  in  spite  of  me,  and  I  tremble  and  almost  cease 
to  breathe  as  there  flashes  upon  me  the  possibility,  the  blissful, 
God-given  hope !  No,  no !  I  will  not  think  it,  lest  I  could 


390  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

not  bear  to  have  it  crushed !  0,  what  am  I  writing  ?  I  know 
not.  I  cannot  endure  the  suspense  long;  write  quickly,  or 
come  to  me,  my  father,  —  for  I  will  call  you  so  once,  though 
perhaps  never  again. 

GERTRUDE. 

Mr.  Phillips  —  or  rather  Mr.  Amory,  for  we  will  call  him 
by  his  true  name  —  had  either  forgotten  or  neglected  to  men 
tion  his  address.  Gertrude  did  not  observe  this  circumstance 
until  she  had  folded  and  was  preparing  to  direct  her  letter. 
She  then  recollected  the  unfortunate  omission,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  experienced  a  severe  pang  in  the  thought  that  her  com 
munication  would  never  reach  him.  She  was  reassured,  how 
ever,  on  examining  the  postmark,  which  was  evidently  New 
York,  to  which  place  she  unhesitatingly  addressed  her  missive  ; 
and  then,  unwilling  to  trust  it  to  other  hands,  tied  on  her  bon 
net,  caught  up  a  veil  with  which  to  protect  and  conceal  her 
agitated  face,  and  hastened  to  deposit  the  letter  herself  in  the 
village  post-office. 

To  persons  of  an  excitable  and  imaginative  temperament  there 
is  perhaps  no  greater  or  more  painful  state  of  trial  than  that 
occasioned  by  severe  and  long-continued  suspense.  When  we 
know  precisely  what  we  have  to  bear,  we  can  usually  call  to 
our  aid  the  needed  strength  and  submission;  but  a  more  than 
ordinary  patience  and  forbearance  is  necessary  to  enable  us 
calmly  and  tranquilly  to  await  the  approach  of  an  important 
crisis,  big  with  events  the  nature  of  which  we  can  have  no 
means  of  foreseeing,  but  which  will  inevitably  exercise  an  all- 
controlling  influence  upon  the  life.  One  moment  hope  usurps 
the  mastery,  and  promises  a  happy  issue;  we  smile,  breathe 
freely,  and  banish  care  and  anxiety ;  but  an  instant  more,  and 
some  word,  look,  or  even  thought  changes  the  whole  current 
of  our  feelings,  clouds  take  the  place  of  smiles,  the  chest  heaves 
with  a  sudden  oppression,  fear  starts  up  like  a  nightmare,  and 
in  proportion  as  we  have  cherished  a  confident  joy  are  we 
plunged  into  the  torture  of  doubt  or  the  agony  of  despair. 

Gertrude's  case  seemed  a  peculiarly  trying  one.  She  had 
been,  already,  for  a  week  past  struggling  with  a  degree  of  sus 
pense  and  anxiety  which  agitated  her  almost  beyond  endurance ; 
and  now  a  new  occasion  of  uncertainty  and  mystery  had  arisen, 
involving  in  its  issues  an  almost  equal  amount  of  self-question- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEB  391 

ing  and  torture.  It  seemed  almost  beyond  the  power  of  so 
young,  so  sensitive,  and  so  inexperienced  a  girl  to  rally  such 
self-command  as  would  enable  her  to  control  her  emotions,  dis 
guise  them  from  observation,  and  compel  herself  to  endure  alone 
and  in  silence  this  cruel  dispensation  of  her  destiny. 

But  she  did  do  it,  and  bravely,  too.  Whether  the  greatness 
of  the  emergency  called  forth,  as  it  ever  does  in  a  true-hearted 
woman,  a  proportionate  greatness  of  spirit;  whether  the  compli 
cation  of  her  web  of  destiny  compelled  her,  with  closed  hands 
and  a  submissive  will,  to  cease  all  efforts  for  its  disentangle 
ment,  or  whether,  with  that  humble  trust,  which  ever  grew 
more  deep  and  ardent  as  the  sense  of  her  own  helplessness 
pressed  upon  her,  she  turned  for  help  to  Him  whose  strength  is 
made  perfect  in  weakness,  —  it  is  certain  that,  as  she  took  her 
way  towards  home  after  depositing  the  letter  in  the  postmaster's 
hand,  the  firmness  of  her  step,  the  calm  uplifting  of  her  eye, 
gave  token  that  she  that  moment  conceived  a  brave  resolve,  a 
resolve  which,  during  the  two  days  that  intervened  ere  she  re 
ceived  the  expected  reply,  never  for  one  moment  deserted  her. 

And  it  was  this.  She  would  endeavor  to  suspend  for  the 
present  those  vain  conjectures,  that  fruitless  weighing  of  prob 
abilities,  which  served  only  to  harass  her  mircl,  puzzle  her  un 
derstanding,  and  destroy  her  peace;  she  would  ponder  no  more 
on  matters  which  concerned  herself,  but  with  a  desperate  effort 
turn  all  her  mental  and  all  her  physical  energy  into  some  other 
and  more  disinterested  channel,  and  patiently  wait  until  the 
cloud  which  hung  over  her  fate  should  be  dissipated  by  the  light 
of  truth,  and  explanation  triumph  over  mystery. 

She  was  herself  surprised,  afterwards,  when  she  called  to 
mind  and  brought  up  in  long  array  the  numerous  household, 
domestic,  and  friendly  duties  which  she  almost  unconsciously 
accomplished  in  those  few  days  during  which  she  was  wrestling 
with  thoughts  that  were  ever  struggling  to  be  uppermost,  and 
were  only  kept  down  by  a  force  of  will  that  was  almost  exhaust 
ing. 

She  dusted  and  rearranged  every  book  in  Mr.  Graham's  ex 
tensive  library ;  unpacked  and  put  in  their  appropriate  places 
every  article  of  her  own  and  Emily's  long-scattered  wardrobe; 
aided  Mrs.  Ellis  in  her  labors  to  restore  order  to  the  china  closet 
and  the  linen  press;  and  many  other  neglected  or  long-post 
poned  duties  now  found  a  time  for  their  fulfilment. 


392  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

In  these  praiseworthy  efforts  to  drive  away  such  reflections 
as  were  fatal  to  her  peace,  and  employ  her  hands,  at  least,  if 
not  her  heart,  in  such  services  as  might  promote  the  comfort 
and  well-being  of  others,  let  us  leave  her  for  the  present. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  393 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

Thou  neither  dost  persuade  me  to  seek  wealth 
For  empire's  sake,  nor  empire  to  affect 
For  glory's  sake,  by  all  thy  argument. 

MlLTOW. 

IN  a  well-furnished  private  parlor  of  one  of  those  first-class 
hotels  in  which  New  York  city  abounds,  Philip  Amory  sat 
alone.  It  was  evening.  The  window  curtains  were  drawn,  the 
gas  lamps  burning  brightly,  bringing  out  the  gorgeous  colors  of 
the  gayly  tinted  carpet  and  draperies,  and  giving  a  cheerful 
glow  to  the  room,  the  comfortable  appearance  of  which  con 
trasted  strongly  with  the  pale  countenance  and  desponding  atti 
tude  of  its  solitary  inmate,  who,  with  his  head  bowed  upon  his 
hands,  leaned  upon  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 

He  had  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  in  precisely  the  same  position, 
without  once  moving  or  looking  up.  With  his  left  hand,  upon 
which  his  forehead  rested,  he  had  thrust  back  the  wavy  masses 
of  his  silvered  hair,  as  if  their  light  weight  were  too  oppressive 
for  his  heated  brow ;  and  the  occasional  movement  of  his  fin 
gers,  as  they  were  slowly  passed  to  and  fro  beneath  the  graceful 
curls,  alone  gave  evidence  that  he  had  not  fallen  asleep. 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  straightened  his  commanding  figure 
to  its  full  height,  and  slowly  commenced  pacing  the  room.  A 
light  knock  at  the  door  arrested  his  measured  steps ;  a  look  of 
nervous  agitation  and  annoyance  overspread  his  countenance; 
he  again  flung  himself  into  his  chair,  and  in  reply  to  the  ser 
vant's  announcing  "a  gentleman,  sir,"  was  preparing  to  say,  "I 
cannot  be  interrupted,"  —  but  it  was  too  late;  the  visitor  had 
already  advanced  within  the  door,  which  the  waiter  quietly 
closed  and  retreated. 

The  newcomer  —  a  young  man  —  stepped  quickly  and  eagerly 
forward,  but  checked  himself,  somewhat  abashed  at  the  unex 
pected  coldness  of  the  reception  he  met  from  his  host,  who  rose 
slowly  and  deliberately  to  meet  his  guest,  while  the  cloud  upon 
his  countenance  and  the  frigid  manner  in  which  he  touched  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

young  man's  cordially  offered  hand  seemed  to  jnpty  that  the 
latter' s  presence  was  unwelcome. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  William  Sullivan,  for  it 
was  he  who  had  thus  unintentionally  forced  an  entrance  to  the 
secluded  man.  "I  am  afraid  my  visit  is  an  intrusion." 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,"  replied  Mr.  Amory.  <%I  beg  you  will 
be  seated ; "  and  he  politely  handed  a  chair. 

Willie  availed  himself  of  the  offered  seat  no  further  than  to 
lean  lightly  upon  it  with  one  hand,  while  he  still  remained 
standing.  "You  are  changed,  sir,"  continued  he,  "since  I  last 
saw  you." 

"Changed!     Yes,  I  am,"  returned  the  other  absently. 

"  Your  health,  I  fear,  is  not  —  " 

"My  health  is  excellent,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  interrupting  his 
unfinished  remark.  Then  seeming  for  the  first  time  to  realize 
the  necessity  of  exerting  himself,  in  order  to  sustain  the  con 
versation,  he  added,  "It  is  a  long  time,  sir,  since  we  met.  I 
have  not  yet  forgotten  the  debt  I  owe  you  for  your  timely  in 
terference  between  me  and  Ali,  that  Arab  traitor,  with  his  ras 
cally  army  of  Bedouin  rogues." 

"Do  not  name  it,  sir,"  replied  Willie.  "Our  meeting  was 
fortunate  indeed;  but  the  benefit  was  as  mutual  as  the  danger 
to  which  we  were  alike  exposed." 

"I  cannot  think  so.  You  seemed  to  have  a  most  excellent 
understanding  with  your  own  party  of  guides  and  attendants, 
Arabs  though  they  were." 

"True;  I  have  had  some  experience  in  Eastern  travel,  and 
usually  know  how  to  manage  these  inflammable  spirits  of  the 
desert.  But  at  the  time  I  joined  you  I  was  myself  entering 
the  neighborhood  of  hostile  tribes,  and  might  soon  have  found 
our  party  overawed,  but  for  the  advantage  of  having  joined 
forces  with  yourself." 

"  You  set  but  a  modest  value  upon  your  conciliatory  powers, 
my  young  man.  To  you,  who  are  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
facts  in  the  case,  I  can  hardly  claim  the  merit  of  frankness  for 
the  acknowledgment  that  it  was  only  my  own  hot  temper  and 
stubborn  will  which  exposed  us  both  to  the  imminent  danger 
which  you  were  fortunately  able  to  avert.  No,  no !  you  must 
not  deprive  me  of  the  satisfaction  of  once  more  expressing  my 
gratitude  for  your  invaluable  aid." 

"You  are  making  my  visit,  sir,"  said  Willie,  smiling,  "the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  395 

very  reverse  of  what  it  was  intended  to  be.  I  did  not  come 
here  this  evening  to  receive,  but,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  to 
render  thanks." 

"  For  what,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Amory  abruptly,  almost  roughly. 
"  You  owe  me  nothing !  " 

"  The  friends  of  Isabella  Clinton,  sir,  owe  you  a  debt  of  grati 
tude  which  it  will  be  impossible  for  them  ever  to  repay." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Sullivan;  I  have  done  nothing 
which  places  that  young  lady's  friends  under  a  particle  of  obli 
gation  to  me." 

"Did  you  not  save  her  life? " 

"Yes;  but  nothing  was  further  from  my  intention." 

Willie  smiled.  "It  could  have  been  no  accident,  I  think, 
which  led  you  to  risk  your  own  life  to  rescue  a  fellow  passenger. " 

"It  was  no  accident,  indeed,  which  led  to  Miss  Clinton's 
safety  from  destruction.  I  am  convinced  of  that.  But  you 
must  not  thank  me :  it  is  due  to  another  than  myself  that  she 
does  not  now  sleep  in  death." 

"  May  I  ask  to  whom  you  refer  ?  Your  words  are  myste 
rious.  " 

"  I  refer  to  a  dear  and  noble  girl  whom  I  swam  to  that  burn 
ing  wreck  to  save.  Her  veil  had  been  agreed  upon  as  a  signal 
between  us.  That  veil,  carefully  thrown  over  the  head  of  Miss 
Clinton,  whom  I  found  clinging  to  the  spot  assigned  to  —  to 
her  whom  I  was  seeking,  deceived  me,  and  I  bore  in  safety  to 
the  shore  the  burden  which  I  had  ignorantly  seized  from  the  > 
gaping  waters,  leaving  my  own  darling,  who  had  offered  her 
life  as  a  sacrifice,  to  —  " 

"  0 !  not  to  die !  "  exclaimed  Willie. 

"No;  to  be  saved  by  a  miracle.  Go  thank  her  for  Miss 
Clinton's  life." 

"I  thank  God,"  said  Willie  with  fervor,  "that  the  horrors 
of  such  scenes  of  destruction  are  half  redeemed  by  heroism  like 
that." 

The  hitherto  stern  countenance  of  Mr.  Amory  softened  as 
he  listened  to  the  young  man's  enthusiastic  outburst  of  admira 
tion  at  Gertrude's  noble  self-devotion. 

"  Who  is  she  1     Where  is  she  ?  "  continued  Willie.  t 

"Ask  me  not! "  replied  Mr.  Amory,  with  a  gesture  of  impa 
tience.  "  I  cannot  tell  you,  if  I  would.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since  that  ill-fated  day." 


396  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

His  manner,  even  more  than  his  words,  seemed  to  intimate 
an  unwillingness  to  enter  into  any  further  explanation  regard 
ing  Isabel's  rescue,  and  Willie,  perceiving  it,  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  silent  and  irresolute.  Then,  advancing  a  step  nearer,  he 
said,  — 

"Though  you  so  utterly  disclaim,  Mr.  Phillips,  any  partici 
pation  in  Miss  Clinton's  happy  escape,  I  feel  that  my  errand 
here  would  be  but  imperfectly  fulfilled  if  I  should  fail  to  de 
liver  the  message  which  I  bring  to  one  who  was,  at  least,  the 
final  means,  if  not  the  original  cause  of  her  safety.  Mr.  Clin 
ton,  the  young  lady's  father,  desired  me  to  tell  you  that,  in 
saving  the  life  of  his  only  surviving  child,  the  last  of  seven,  all 
of  whom  but  herself  were  doomed  to  an  early  death,  you  have 
prolonged  his  own  days,  and  rendered  him  grateful  to  that  de 
gree  which  words  on  his  part  are  powerless  to  express;  but 
that,  as  long  as  his  feeble  life  is  spared,  he  shall  never  cease  to 
bless  your  name,  and  pray  to  Heaven  for  its  choicest  gifts  upon 
you  and  those  who  dwell  next  your  heart." 

There  was  a  slight  moisture  in  the  clear,  penetrating  eye  of 
Mr.  Amory,  but  a  bland  and  courteous  smile  upon  his  lip,  as 
he  said,  in  reply  to  Willie's  words,  — 

"All  this  from  Mr.  Clinton!  Very  gentlemanly,  and  equally 
sincere,  I  doubt  not;  but  you  surely  do  not  mean  to  thank  me 
wholly  in  his  name,  my  young  friend.  Have  you  nothing  to 
say  for  your  own  sake  1 " 

Willie  looked  surprised  at  the  question,  but  replied  unhesi 
tatingly,  "Certainly,  sir;  as  one  of  a  large  circle  of  acquaint 
ances  and  friends,  whom  Miss  Clinton  honors  with  her  regard, 
you  may  rest  assured  that  my  admiration  and  gratitude  for  your 
disinterested  exertions  are  unbounded;  and  not  only  on  her 
account,  but  on  that  of  every  other  whom  you  had  the  noble 
satisfaction  of  rescuing  from  a  most  terrific  form  of  death  and 
destruction. " 

"Am  I  to  understand,  by  your  words,  that  you  speak  only 
as  a  friend  of  humanity,  and  that  you  felt  no  deep  personal  in 
terest  in  any  of  my  fellow  passengers  1 " 

"  I  was  unacquainted  with  nearly  all  of  them.  Miss  Clinton 
was  the  only  one  whom  I  had  known  for  any  greater  length  of 
time  than  during  two  or  three  days  of  Saratoga  intercourse ;  but 
I  should  certainly  have  felt  deeply  grieved  at  her  death,  since 
I  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her  familiarly  in  her  childhood, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  397 

have  lately  been  continually  in  her  society,  and  am  aware  that 
her  father,  my  respected  partner,  an  old  and  invaluable  friend, 
who  is  now  much  enfeebled  in  health,  could  hardly  have  sur 
vived  so  severe  a  shock  as  the  loss,  under  such  harrowing  cir 
cumstances,  of  an  only  child,  whom  he  almost  idolizes." 

"You  speak  very  coolly,  Mr.  Sullivan.  Are  you  aware  that 
the  prevailing  belief  gives  you  credit  for  feeling  more  than  a 
mere  friendly  interest  in  Miss  Clinton  ?  " 

The  gradual  dilating  of  Willie's  large  gray  eyes,  as  he  fixed 
them  inquiringly  upon  Mr.  Amory,  the  half -scrutinizing,  half- 
astonished  expression  which  crept  over  his  face,  as  he  deliber 
ately  seated  himself  in  the  chair,  which,  until  then,  he  had  not 
occupied,  were  sufficient  evidence  of  the  effect  of  the  question 
so  unexpectedly  put  to  him. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  either  misunderstood  you,  or  the  prevail 
ing  belief  is  a  most  mistaken  one." 

"  Then  you  never  before  heard  of  your  own  engagement  ? " 

"Never,  I  assure  you.  Is  it  possible  that  so  idle  a  report 
has  obtained  an  extensive  circulation  among  Miss  Clinton's 
friends  ? " 

"  Sufficiently  extensive  for  me,  a  mere  spectator  of  Saratoga 
life,  to  hear  it  not  only  whispered  from  ear  to  ear,  but  openly 
proclaimed  as  a  fact  worthy  of  credit." 

"I  am  exceedingly  surprised  and  vexed  at  what  you  tell  me," 
said  Willie,  looking  really  disturbed  and  chagrined.  "Nonsen 
sical  and  false  as  such  a  rumor  is,  it  will  very  naturally,  if  it 
should  reach  Miss  Clinton,  be  a  source  of  indignation  and  an 
noyance  to  her;  and  it  is  on  that  account,  far  more  than  my 
own,  that  I  regret  the  circumstances  which  have  probably  given 
rise  to  it." 

"Do  you  refer  to  considerations  of  delicacy  on  the  lady's 
part,  or  have  you  the  modesty  to  believe  that  her  pride  would 
be  wounded  by  having  her  name  thus  coupled  with  that  of  her 
father's  junior  partner,  a  young  man  hitherto  unknown  to  fash 
ionable  circles?  But,  excuse  me;  perhaps  I  am  stepping  on 
dangerous  ground,  and  your  own  pride  may  shrink  from  the 
frankness  of  my  speech." 

"By  no  means,  sir;  you  wrong  me  if  you  believe  my  pride 
to  be  of  such  a  nature.  But,  in  answer  to  your  question,  I 
have  not  only  reference  to  both  the  motives  you  name,  but  to 
many  others,  when  I  assert  my  opinion  of  the  resentment  Miss 


398  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

Clinton  would  probably  cherish,  if  the  foolish  and  unwarranted 
remarks  you  mention  should  chance  to  reach  her  ears." 

"Mr.  Sullivan,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  drawing  his  chair  nearer 
to  Willie's,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  great  interest,  "are  you 
sure  you  are  not  standing  in  your  own  light?  Are  you  aware 
that  undue  modesty,  coupled  with  false  and  overstrained  no 
tions  of  refinement,  has  before  now  stood  in  the  way  of  many  a 
man's  good  fortune,  and  is  likely  to  interfere  largely  with  your 
own  ? " 

"  How  so,  sir  ?  You  speak  in  riddles,  and  I  am  ignorant  of 
your  meaning." 

"Handsome  young  fellows,  like  you,"  continued  Mr.  Amory, 
"  can,  I  know,  often  command  almost  any  amount  of  property 
for  the  asking ;  but  many  such  chances  rarely  occur  to  one  indi 
vidual  ;  and  the  world  will  laugh  at  you,  if  you  waste  so  fair  an 
opportunity  as  that  which  you  now  enjoy." 

"  Opportunity  for  what  ?  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  advise 
me  —  " 

"  I  do,  though.  I  am  older  than  you  are,  and  I  know  some 
thing  of  the  world.  A  fortune  is  not  made  in  a  day,  nor  is 
money  a  thing  to  be  despised.  Mr.  Clinton's  life  is,  I  dare 
say,  enfeebled  and  almost  worn  out  in  toiling  after  that  wealth 
which  will  soon  be  the  inheritance  of  his  daughter.  She  is 
young,  beautiful,  and  the  pride  of  that  high  circle  in  which  she 
moves.  Both  father  and  daughter  smile  upon  you.  You  need 
not  look  disconcerted ;  I  speak  as  between  friends,  and  you  know 
the  truth  of  that  which  strangers  have  observed,  and  which  I 
have  frequently  heard  mentioned  as  beyond  doubt.  Why,  then, 
do  you  hesitate  ?  I  trust  you  are  not  deterred  from  taking  ad 
vantage  of  your  position  by  any -romantic  and  chivalrous  sense 
of  inferiority  on  your  part,  or  unworthiness  to  obtain  so  fair  a 
prize. " 

"Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Willie  with  hesitation  and  evident  em 
barrassment,  "the  comments  of  mere  casual  acquaintances,  such 
as  the  greater  part  of  those  with  whom  Miss  Clinton  associated 
in  Saratoga,  are  not  in  the  least  to  be  depended  upon.  The 
peculiar  relations  in  which  I  stand  towards  Mr.  Clinton  have 
been  such  as  of  late  to  draw  me  into  constant  intercourse  both 
with  himself  and  his  daughter.  He  is  almost  entirely  without 
relatives,  has  scarcely  any  trustworthy  friend  at  command,  and 
therefore  appears,  perhaps,  to  the  world  more  favorably  disposed 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  399 

towards  me  than  would  be  found  to  be  the  case  should  I  aspire  to 
his  daughter's  hand.  The  lady  herself,  too,  has  so  many  admirers, 
that  it  would  be  the  height  of  vanity  in  me  to  believe  —  " 

"Pooh,  pooh!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Phillips,  springing  from  his 
chair,  and,  as  he  commenced  pacing  the  room,  clapping  the 
young  man  heartily  upon  the  shoulder,  "tell  that,  Sullivan,  to 
a  greater  novice,  a  more  unsophisticated  individual  than  I  am ! 
It  is  very  becoming  in  you  to  say  so;  but  (though  I  hate  to 
flatter)  a  few  slight  reminders  will  hardly  harm  a  youth  who 
has  such  a  very  low  opinion  of  his  own  merits.  Pray,  who 
was  the  gentleman  for  whose  society  Miss  Clinton  was,  a  few 
nights  since,  so  ready  to  forego  the  music  of  Alboni,  the  bril 
liancy  of  the  well-lighted  and  crowded  hall,  and  the  smiles  and 
compliments  of  a  whole  train  of  adorers  ?  With  whom,  I  say, 
did  she,  in  comparison  with  all  this,  prefer  a  quiet  moonlight 
walk  in  the  garden  of  the  United  States  Hotel  ? " 

Willie  hesitated  a  moment,  while  endeavoring  to  rally  his 
recollection;  then,  as  if  the  circumstance  and  its  consequences 
had  just  flashed  upon  him,  he  exclaimed,  "I  remember!  That, 
then,  was  one  of  the  causes  of  suspicion.  I  was,  on  that  occa 
sion,  a  messenger  merely,  to  summon  Miss  Isabel  to  the  bed 
side  of  her  father,  by  whom  I  had  been  anxiously  watching 
for  hours,  and  who,  on  awakening  from  a  long-protracted  and 
almost  lethargic  sleep,  which  had  excited  the  alarm  of  the  phy 
sician,  inquired  for  his  daughter  with  such  eagerness  that  I  did 
not  hesitate  to  interrupt  the  pleasure  of  the  evening,  and  call 
her  to  the  post  of  duty,  which  awaited  her  in  the  cottage  occu 
pied  by  Mr.  Clinton,  at  the  further  extremity  of  the  grounds, 
to  which  I  accompanied  her  by  moonlight." 

Mr.  Amory  almost  laughed  outright,  cast  upon  Willie,  for 
the  first  time,  that  look  of  sweet  benignity  which,  though  rare, 
well  became  his  fine  countenance,  and  exclaimed,  "  So  much  for 
watering-place  gossip!  I  believe  I  must  forbear  speaking  of 
any  further  evidences  of  a  tender  interest  manifested  by  either 
of  you.  But,  these  things  apart,  and  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe,  my  dear  Sullivan,  that  though  the  young  lady's  heart 
be  still,  like  her  fortune,  in  the  united  keeping  of  herself  and 
her  father,  there  is  nothing  easier  than  for  you  to  win  and  claim 
them  both.  You  are  a  rising  young  man,  and  possess  business 
talent,  indispensable,  I  hear,  to  the  elder  party.  If,  with  your 
handsome  face,  figure,  and  accomplishments,  you  cannot  render 


400  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

yourself  equally  so  to  the  younger,  there  is  no  one  to  blame  but 
yourself." 

Willie  laughed.  "If  I  had  that  object  in  view,  I  know  of 
no  one  to  whom  I  would  so  soon  come  for  encouragement  as  to 
you,  sir;  but  the  flattering  prospect  you  hold  out  is  quite 
wasted  upon  me." 

"Not  if  you  are  the  man  I  think  you,"  replied  Mr.  Amory. 
"I  cannot  believe  you  will  be  such  a  fool  (I  beg  your  pardon 
for  using  so  strong  a  term)  as  to  allow  yourself  to  be  blinded  to 
the  opportunity  you  see  held  out  before  you  of  making  that 
appearance  in  society,  and  taking  that  stand  in  life,  to  which 
your  birth,  your  education,  and  your  personal  qualities  entitle 
you.  Your  father  was  a  respectable  clergyman  (always  an  hon 
orable  profession);  you  enjoyed  and  profited  by  every  advan 
tage  in  your  youth,  and  have  done  yourself  such  credit  in 
India  as  would  enable  you,  with  plenty  of  capital  at  command, 
to  take  the  lead  in  a  few  years  among  mercantile  men.  All  this, 
indeed,  might  not,  probably  would  not,  give  you  an  opportunity 
to  mingle  freely  and  at  once  in  the  highest  ranks  of  our  aristo 
cracy  ;  but  a  union  with  Miss  Clinton  would  entitle  you  imme 
diately  to  such  a  position  as  years  of  assiduous  effort  could  hardly 
win,  and  you  would  find  yourself  at  twenty-five  at  the  highest 
point  in  every  respect  to  which  you  could  possibly  aspire ;  nor 
have  you,  I  will  venture  to  say,  lived  for  six  years,  utterly  de 
prived  of  female  society,  without  becoming  proportionately  sus 
ceptible  to  such  uncommon  grace  and  beauty  as  Miss  Clinton's. 

"A  man  just  returned  from  a  long  residence  abroad  is  usually 
thought  to  be  an  easy  prey  to  the  charms  of  the  first  of  his  fair 
countrywomen  into  whose  society  he  may  chance  to  be  thrown ; 
and  it  can  scarcely  then  be  wondered  at  if  you  are  subdued  by 
such  winning  attractions  as  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  this 
land  of  beautiful  women.  Nor  can  it  be  possible  that  you  have 
for  six  years  toiled  beneath  an  Indian  sun  without  learning  to 
appreciate,  as  it  deserves,  the  unlooked-for  but  happy  and  hon 
orable  termination  of  your  toils,  —  the  easily  attained  rest  from 
labor,  whose  crowning  blessing  will  be  the  possession  of  your 
beautiful  bride." 

A  moment's  pause  ensued,  during  which  Mr.  Amory  sat  watch 
ing  the  countenance  of  Willie,  while  he  awaited  his  reply.  He 
was  not  kept  long  in  ignorance  of  the  effect  his  glowing  picture 
had  produced. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  401 

"Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Willie,  speaking  with  prompt  decision, 
and  a  nervous  energy  which  proved  how  heartfelt  were  the 
words  he  uttered,  "  I  have  not,  indeed,  spent  many  of  the  best 
years  of  my  life  toiling  beneath  a  burning  sun,  and  in  a  pro 
tracted  exile  from  all  that  I  held  most  dear,  without  being  sus 
tained  and  encouraged  by  high  hopes,  aims,  and  aspirations.  But 
you  misjudge  me  greatly,  if  you  believe  that  the  ambition  that 
has  hitherto  spurred  me  on  can  find  its  gratification  in  those 
rewards  which  you  have  so  vividly  presented  to  my  imagination. 
No,  sir !  believe  me,  though  these  advantages  may  seem  beyond 
the  grasp  of  most  men,  I  aspire  to  something  higher  yet,  and 
should  think  my  best  endeavors  wasted  indeed,  if  my  hopes  and 
wishes  tended  not  to  a  still  more  glorious  good." 

"And  to  what  quarter  do  you  look  for  the  fulfilment  of  such 
flattering  prospects  ? "  asked  Mr.  Amory  in  an  ironical  tone  of 
voice. 

"Not  to  the  gay  circles  of  fashion,"  replied  Willie,  "nor  yet 
to  that  moneyed  aristocracy  which  awards  to  each  man  his  posi 
tion  in  life.  I  do  not  depreciate  an  honorable  standing  in  the 
eyes  of  my  fellow-men;  I  am  not  blind  to  the  advantages  of 
wealth,  or  insensible  to  the  claims  of  grace  and  beauty ;  but  these 
were  not  the  things  for  which  I  left  my  home,  and  it  is  not  to 
claim  them  that  I  have  now  returned.  Young  as  I  am,  I  have 
lived  long  enough,  and  seen  enough  of  trial,  to  lay  to  heart  the 
belief  that  the  only  blessings  worth  striving  for  are  something 
more  enduring,  more  satisfying,  than  doubtful  honors,  preca 
rious  wealth,  or  fleeting  smiles." 

"To  what,  then,  may  I  ask,  do  you  look  forward?" 

"To  a  home,  and  that,  not  so  much  for  myself  —  though  I 
have  long  pined  for  such  a  rest  —  as  for  another,  with  whom  I 
hope  to  share  it.  A  year  since,"  —  and  Willie's  lip  trembled, 
his  voice  shook  with  emotion,  as  he  spoke,  — "and  there  were 
others,  beside  that  dear  one  whose  image  now  entirely  fills  my 
heart,  whom  I  had  fondly  hoped,  and  should  deeply  have  re 
joiced,  to  see  reaping  the  fruits  of  my  exertions.  But  we  were 
not  permitted  to  meet  again ;  and  now,  —  but  pardon  me,  sir ; 
I  did  not  mean  to  intrude  upon  you  my  private  affairs." 

"Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Amory;  "go  on;  I  deserve  some  degree 
of  confidence,  in  return  for  the  disinterested  advice  I  have  been 
giving  you.  Speak  to  me  as  to  an  old  friend;  I  am  much  in 
terested  in  what  you  say." 


402  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  spoken  freely  of  myself, "  said  Willie ; 
"  but  frankness  is  natural  to  me,  and  since  you  profess  a  desire 
to  learn  something  of  my  aim  in  life,  I  know  of  no  motive  I 
have  for  reserve  or  concealment.  But  my  position,  sir,  even  as 
a  child,  was  singular;  and  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  refer  to  it 
for  a  moment.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  twelve  or 
fourteen  years  of  age  when  I  began  to  realize  the  necessity 
which  rested  upon  me.  My  widowed  mother  and  her  aged 
father  were  the  only  relatives,  almost  the  only  friends,  I  knew. 
One  was  feeble,  delicate,  and  quite  unequal  to  active  exertion; 
the  other  was  old  and  poor,  being  wholly  dependent  upon  the 
small  salary  he  received  for  officiating  as  sexton  of  a  neighbor 
ing  church.  You  are  aware,  for  I  have  mentioned  it  in  our 
earlier  acquaintance  abroad,  that  in  spite  of  these  circumstances, 
they  maintained  me  for  several  years  in  comfort  and  decency, 
and  gave  me  an  excellent  education. 

"At  an  age  when  kites  and  marbles  are  wont  to  be  all-en 
grossing  I  became  possessed  with  an  earnest  desire  to  relieve 
my  mother  and  grandfather  of  a  part  of  their  burden  of  care  and 
labor;  and  with  this  purpose  in  view  sought  and  obtained  a 
situation,  in  which  I  was  well  treated  and  well  paid,  and  which 
I  retained  until  the  death  of  my  excellent  master.  Then,  for 
a  time,  I  felt  bitterly  the  want  of  employment,  became  despond 
ing  and  unhappy;  a  state  of  mind  which  was  fostered  by  con 
stant  association  with  one  of  so  melancholy  and  despairing  a 
temperament  as  my  grandfather,  who,  having  met  with  great 
disappointment  in  life,  held  out  no  encouragement  to  me,  but 
was  forever  hinting  at  the  probability  of  my  utterly  failing  in 
every  scheme  for  success  and  advancement. 

"I  bitterly  regretted,  at  the  time,  the  depressing  influence 
of  the  old  man's  innuendoes;  but  I  have  since  thought  they 
answered  a  good  purpose ;  for  nothing  so  urged  me  on  to  ever- in 
creasing  efforts  as  the  indomitable  desire  to  prove  the  mistaken 
nature  of  his  gloomy  predictions,  and  few  things  have  given  me 
more  satisfaction  than  the  assurances  I  have  frequently  received 
during  the  few  past  years  that  he  came  at  last  to  a  full  convic 
tion  that  my  prosperity  was  established  beyond  a  doubt,  and 
that  one  of  his  ill-fated  family  was  destined  to  escape  the  trials 
and  evils  of  poverty. 

"My  mother  was  a  quiet,  gentle  woman,  small  in  person, 
with  great  simplicity  and  some  reserve  of  manner.  She  loved 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  403 

me  like  her  own  soul;  she  taught  me  everything  I  know  of 
goodness;  there  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  have  made  for  her 
happiness.  I  would  have  died  to  save  her  life ;  but  we  shall 
never  meet  again  in  this  world,  and  I  —  I  —  am  learning  to  be 
resigned ! 

"  For  these  two,  and  one  other,  whom  I  shall  speak  of  pre 
sently,  I  was  ready  to  go  away,  and  strive  and  suffer,  and  be 
patient.  The  opportunity  came,  and  I  embraced  it.  And  soon 
one  great  object  of  my  ambition  was  won.  I  was  able  to  earn 
a  competency  for  myself  and  for  them.  In  the  course  of  time, 
luxuries  even  were  within  my  means,  and  I  had  begun  to  look 
forward  to  a  not  very  distant  day  when  my  long-looked-for  re 
turn  should  render  our  happiness  perfect  and  complete.  I  little 
thought,  then,  that  the  sad  tidings  of  my  grandfather's  death 
were  on  their  way,  and  the  news  of  my  mother's  slow  but 
equally  sure  decline  so  soon  to  follow. 

"  It  is  true,  however,  they  are  both  gone ;  and  I  should  now 
be  so  solitary  as  almost  to  long  to  follow  them,  but  for  one 
other,  whose  love  will  bind  me  to  earth  so  long  as  she  is  spared. " 

"And  she? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Amory,  with  an  eagerness  which 
Willie,  engrossed  with  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  observe. 

"Is  a  young  girl,"  continued  Willie,  "without  family,  wealth, 
or  beauty ;  but  with  a  spirit  so  elevated  as  to  make  her  great, 
a  heart  so  noble  as  to  make  her  rich,  a  soul  so  pure  as  to  make 
her  beautiful." 

Mr.  Amory 's  attitude  of  fixed  attention,  his  evident  waiting 
to  hear  more,  emboldened  Willie  to  speak  still  further. 

"There  lived  in  the  same  house  which  my  grandfather  occu 
pied  an  old  man,  a  city  lamplighter.  He  was  poor,  poorer  even 
than  we  were,  but  I  will  venture  to  say  there  never  was  a  bet 
ter  or  a  kinder-hearted  person  in  the  world.  One  evening,  when 
engaged  in  his  round  of  duty,  he  picked  up  and  brought  home 
a  little  ragged  child,  whom  a  cruel  woman  had  just  thrust  into 
the  street  to  perish  with  cold,  or  die  a  more  lingering  death  in 
the  almshouse ;  for  nothing  but  such  devoted  care  as  she  re 
ceived  from  my  mother  and  Uncle  True  (so  we  always  called 
our  old  friend)  could  have  saved  the  feeble,  half-starved  creature 
from  the  consequences  of  long-continued  exposure  and  ill-treat 
ment.  Through  their  unwearied  watching  and  efforts  she  was 
spared,  to  repay  in  after  years  all,  and  more  than  all,  the  love 
bestowed  upon  her.  She  was  at  that  time  miserably  thin  and 


404  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

attenuated,  sallow,  and  extremely  plain  in  her  appearance,  be 
sides  being  possessed  of  a  violent  temper,  which  she  had  never 
been  taught  to  restrain,  and  a  stubbornness  of  will,  which  un 
doubtedly  resulted  from  her  having  long  lived  in  opposition  to 
all  the  world. 

"All  this,  however,  did  not  repel  Uncle  True,  under  whose 
loving  influence  new  and  hitherto  undeveloped  virtues  and  ca 
pacities  soon  began  to  manifest  themselves.  In  the  atmosphere 
of  love  in  which  she  now  lived,  she  soon  became  a  changed  be 
ing;  and  when,  in  addition  to  the  example  and  precepts  taught 
her  at  home,  a  divine  light  was  shed  upon  her  life  by  one  who, 
herself  sitting  in  darkness,  casts  a  halo  forth  from  her  own  spirit 
to  illumine  those  of  all  who  are  blessed  with  her  presence,  she 
became,  what  she  has  ever  since  been,  a  being  to  love  and  trust 
for  a  lifetime.  For  myself,  there  were  no  bounds  to  the  affec 
tion  I  soon  came  to  cherish  for  the  little  girl,  to  whom  I  was 
first  attracted  by  compassion  merely. 

"  We  were  constantly  together ;  we  had  no  thoughts,  no  stud 
ies,  no  pleasures,  sorrows,  or  interests  that  were  not  shared. 
I  was  her  teacher,  her  protector,  the  partner  of  all  her  childish 
amusements;  and  she,  on  her  part,  was  by  turns  an  advising, 
consoling,  sympathizing,  and  encouraging  friend.  In  this  latter 
character  she  was  indispensable  to  me,  for  she  had  a  hopeful 
nature,  and  a  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  often  imparted  itself  to 
me.  I  well  remember  when  my  kind  employer  died,  and  I  was 
plunged  in  boyish  grief  and  despair,  the  confidence  and  energy 
with  which  she,  then  very  young,  inspired  me.  The  relation 
between  her  and  Uncle  True  was  beautiful.  Boy  as  I  was,  I 
could  not  but  view  with  admiration  the  old  man's  devoted  love 
for  the  adopted  darling  of  his  latter  years  (his  birdie,  as  he 
always  called  her),  and  the  deep  and  grateful  affection  which 
she  bore  him  in  return. 

"During  the  first  few  years  she  was  wholly  dependent  upon 
him,  and  seemed  only  a  fond,  affectionate  child;  but  a  time 
came,  at  last,  when  the  case  was  reversed,  and  the  old  man, 
stricken  with  disease,  became  infirm  and  helpless.  It  was  then 
that  the  beauty  of  her  woman's  nature  shone  forth  triumphant; 
and,  0,  how  gently,  child  as  she  was,  she  guided  his  steps  as 
he  descended  to  the  grave !  Often  have  I  gone  to  his  room  at 
midnight,  fearing  lest  he  might  be  in  need  of  care  which  she, 
in  her  youth  and  inexperience,  would  be  unable  to  render;  ant! 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  405 

never  shall  I  forget  the  little  figure,  seated  calmly  by  his  bed 
side,  at  an  hour  when  many  of  her  years  would  be  shrinking 
from  fears  conjured  up  by  the  night  and  the  darkness,  with  a 
lamp  dimly  burning  on  a  table  before  her,  and  she  herself,  with 
his  hand  in  hers,  sweetly  soothing  his  wakefulness  by  her  lov 
ing  words,  or  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  her  little  Bible,  reading 
to  him  holy  lessons. 

"But  all  her  care  could  not  prolong  his  life;  and  shortly 
before  I  went  to  India  he  died,  blessing  God  for  the  peace 
imparted  to  him  through  his  gentle  nurse. 

"It  was  my  task  to  soothe  our  little  Gerty's  sorrows,  and  do 
what  I  could  to  comfort  her;  an  office  which,  before  I  left  the 
country,  I  was  rejoiced  to  transfer  to  the  willing  hands  of  the 
excellent  blind  lady  who  had  long  befriended  both  her  and 
Uncle  True.  Before  I  went  away,  I  solemnly  committed  to 
Gerty,  who  had  in  one  instance  proved  herself  both  willing  and 
able,  the  care  of  my  mother  and  grandfather.  She  promised  to 
be  faithful  to  the  trust;  and  nobly  was  that  promise  kept.  In 
spite  of  the  unkindness  and  deep  displeasure  of  Mr.  Graham 
(the  blind  lady's  father),  upon  whose  bounty  she  had  for  a  long 
time  been  dependent,  she  devoted  herself  heart  and  hand  to  the 
fulfilment  of  duties  which  in  her  eyes  were  sacred  and  holy. 
In  spite  of  suffering,  labor,  watching,  and  privation,  she  volun 
tarily  forsook  ease  and  pleasure,  and  spent  day  and  night  in  the 
patient  service  of  friends  whom  she  loved  with  a  greater  love 
than  a  daughter's,  for  it  was  that  of  a  saint. 

"With  all  my  earnestness  of  purpose,  I  could  never  have 
done  half  that  she  did;  I  might  have  loved  as  much,  but  none 
but  a  woman's  heart  could  have  conceived  and  planned,  none 
but  a  woman's  hand  could  have  patiently  executed,  the  deeds 
that  Gertrude  wrought.  She  was  more  than  a  sister  to  me  be 
fore;  she  was  my  constant  correspondent,  my  dearest  friend; 
now  she  is  bound  to  me  by  ties  that  are  not  of  earth  nor  of 
time." 


406  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

And  opportunity  I  here  have  had 

To  try  thee,  sift  thee,  and  confess  have  found  thee 

Proof  against  all  temptation. 

MILTON. 

"CERTAINLY,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  who  had  waited  patiently 
for  the  conclusion  of  Willie's  story,  "I  can  well  understand 
that.  A  man  of  a  generous  spirit  could  hardly  fail  to  cherish 
a  deep  and  lasting  gratitude  for  one  who  devoted  herself  so  dis 
interestedly  to  a  trying  and  toilsome  attendance  upon  the  last 
hours  of  beloved  friends,  to  whose  wants  he  himself  was  pre 
vented  from  ministering ;  and  the  warmth  with  which  you  eulo 
gize  this  girl  does  you  credit,  Sullivan.  She  must,  too,  be  a 
young  person  of  great  excellence,  to  have  fulfilled  so  faithfully 
and  well  a  promise  of  such  remote  date  that  it  would  probably 
have  been  ignored  by  a  less  disinterested  friend.  But  do  not 
let  any  enthusiastic  sense  of  honor  induce  you  to  sacrifice  your 
self  on  the  shrine  of  gratitude. 

"I  shall  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  a  young  man  who  has 
had  the  ambition  to  mark  out,  and  the  energy  to  pursue,  such 
a  course  on  the  road  to  fortune  as  you  have  thus  far  success 
fully  followed,  can,  in  his  sober  senses,  have  made  a  serious 
resolve  to  unite  himself  and  his  prospects  with  an  insignificant 
little  playmate,  of  unacknowledged  birth,  without  beauty  or 
fortune,  unless  there  is  already  a  standing  engagement,  by 
which  he  is  unwillingly  bound,  or  he  allows  himself  to  be  drawn 
on  to  matrimony  by  the  belief  that  the  highest  compliment  he 
can  pay  (namely,  the  offer  of  himself)  will  alone  cancel  the 
immense  obligations  under  which  he  labors.  May  I  ask  if  you 
are  already  shackled  by  promises  ?  " 

"I  am  not,"  replied  Willie. 

"Then  listen  to  me  a  moment.  My  motives  are  friendly 
when  I  beg  you  not  to  act  rashly  in  a  matter  which  will  affect 
the  happiness  of  your  whole  life ;  and  to  hear  —  with  patience, 
too,  if  you  can,"  for  Willie  already  gave  symptoms  of  restless 
ness —  "the  few  words  which  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  407 

"You  are  much  mistaken,  my  young  friend,  if  you  believe 
that  the  happiness  of  Gerty,  as  you  call  her  (a  very  ugly  name, 
by  the  way),  can  be  insured,  any  more  than  your  own,  by  an 
ill-assorted  union,  of  which  you  will  both  find  occasion  to  re 
pent.  You  have  not  seen  her  for  six  years ;  think,  then,  of 
all  that  has  happened  in  the  mean  time,  and  beware  how  you 
act  with  precipitation. 

"  You  have  all  this  time  been  living  abroad,  engaged  in  ac 
tive  life,  growing  in  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  various 
phases  of  society.  In  India,  to  be  sure,  you  witnessed  a  mode 
of  life  wholly  different  from  that  which  prevails  with  us  or  in 
European  cities;  but  the  independence,  both  of  character  and 
manner,  which  you  there  acquired,  fitted  you  admirably  for  the 
polished  sphere  of  Parisian  life,  to  which  you  were  so  suddenly 
introduced,  and  in  which,  I  may  say  without  flattery,  you  met 
with  such  marked  success. 

"Notwithstanding  the  privilege  you  enjoyed  of  being  pre 
sented  in  polite  circles  as  the  friend  of  a  man  so  well  known 
and  so  much  respected  as  Mr.  Clinton,  you  cannot  have  been 
insensible  to  the  marked  attentions  bestowed  upon  you  by 
American  residents  abroad,  or  unaware  of  the  advantage  you 
enjoyed,  on  your  return  home,  from  having  been  known  as  the 
object  of  such  favor.  Though  not  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  you 
in  Paris,  I  was  there  at  the  same  time  with  yourself,  and  had 
some  opportunity  of  being  acquainted  with  facts  which  I  am 
sure  you  would  have  too  much  modesty  to  acknowledge. 

"  That  you  were  not  wholly  devoid  of  taste  for  choice  society 
it  is  easy  to  infer ;  since,  otherwise,  you  would  never  have  been 
able  to  render  yourself  an  ornament  to  it,  or  even  maintain  a 
place  within  its  precincts.  It  is  also  equally  evident  that  your 
pride  must  have  been  flattered,  and  your  views  in  life  somewhat 
biassed,  by  the  favorable  reception  you  have  met,  both  abroad 
and  at  home,  not  only  from  your  own  sex,  but  especially  from 
the  young,  fair,  and  beautiful  women  who  have  honored  you 
with  their  smiles,  and  among  whom  she  whose  name  the  crowd 
already  associates  with  your  own  stands  preeminent. 

"  When  I  think  of  all  this,  and  of  those  pecuniary  hopes  you 
may  so  reasonably  indulge,  and  on  which  I  have  already  dilated, 
and  then  imagine  you  suddenly  flinging  all  these  aside,  to  chiv 
alrously  throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  your  mother's  little  nurse, 
I  confess  I  find  it  impossible  to  keep  silent,  and  avoid  remind- 


408  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ing  you  of  the  reaction  that  must  come,  the  disappointment 
that  must  ensue,  on  finding  yourself  at  once  and  forever  shut 
out  from  participation  in  pleasures  which  have  been  within  your 
reach,  and  voluntarily  discarded. 

"  You  must  remember  that  much  of  the  consideration  which 
is  paid  to  a  young  bachelor  of  growing  prospects  ceases  to  be 
awarded  to  him  after  marriage,  and  is  never  extended  to  his 
bride,  unless  she  be  chosen  from  the  select  circles  to  which  he 
aspires.  This  unportioned  orphan,  with  whom  you  propose  to 
share  your  fate,  —  this  little  patient  schoolmistress  —  " 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  she  had  ever  been  a  teacher ! "  exclaimed 
Willie,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  which 
latterly  he  had  been,  in  his  turn,  pacing  impatiently,  while  he 
listened  to  Mr.  Amory's  words.  "I  did  not  tell  you  anything 
of  the  sort !  How  did  you  know  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Amory,  who  by  his  negligence  had  thus  betrayed  more 
knowledge  than  he  had  been  supposed  to  possess,  hesitated  a 
moment,  but  quickly  recovering  himself,  answered,  with  appar 
ent  frankness,  — 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Sullivan,  I  have  seen  the  girl,  in  com 
pany  with  an  old  doctor." 

"  Dr.  Jeremy  ? "  asked  Willie  quickly. 

"The  same." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  ?     How  did  it  happen  ? " 

"Do  not  question  me!"  said  Mr.  Amory  petulantly,  as  if 
the  matter  were  of  little  consequence,  and  he  did  not  choose  to 
be  interrogated.  "  I  happened  to  see  the  old  gentleman  in  the 
course  of  my  travels,  and  this  Gertrude  Flint  was  with  him. 
He  told  me  a  few  facts  concerning  her  —  nothing  to  her  dis 
advantage,  however;  in  warning  you  against  a  misalliance,  I 
speak  only  in  general  terms." 

Willie  looked  at  Mr.  Amory  in  a  half -scrutinizing,  half-won 
dering  manner,  and  appeared  on  the  point  of  persisting  in  his 
attempt  to  learn  further  particulars;  but  Mr.  Amory,  taking 
up  the  thread  of  his  previous  conversation,  went  on,  without 
giving  him  a  chance  to  speak. 

"This  Gerty,  as  I  was  saying,  Sullivan,  will  be  a  dead  weight 
upon  your  hands,  a  constant  drawback  to  all  your  efforts  for 
the  attainment  of  fashionable  society,  in  which  it  is  hardly  to 
be  expected  she  can  be  exactly  fitted  to  shine.  You  yourself 
pronounce  her  to  be  without  wealth  or  beauty;  of  her  family 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  409 

you  know  nothing,  and  have  certainly  little  reason  to  expect 
that,  if  discovered,  it  would  do  her  any  credit.  I  believe,  then, 
that  I  only  speak  from  the  dictates  of  common  sense,  when  I 
bid  you  beware  how  you  make,  in  the  disposal  of  yourself,  such 
a  very  unequal  bargain." 

"I  am  very  willing  to  believe,  sir,"  said  Willie,  resuming 
his  seat  and  settling  himself  into  a  composed  attitude,  "that 
the  arguments  you  have  so  powerfully  brought  to  bear  upon  a 
question  most  important  to  my  welfare  are  grounded  upon  calm 
reasoning,  and  a  disinterested  desire  to  promote  my  prosperity. 
I  confess  you  are  the  last  man,  judging  from  our  short,  but,  for 
the  length  of  time,  intimate  acquaintance,  from  whom  I  should 
have  expected  such  advice ;  for  I  had  believed  you  so  independ 
ent  of  the  opinion  and  so  indifferent  to  the  applause  of  the 
world,  that  they  would  weigh  but  little  with  you  in  forming 
estimates  for  the  guidance  of  others. 

"  Still,  though  your  suggestions  have  failed  to  influence  or  in 
the  least  degree  change  my  sentiments  or  intentions,  I  fully  ap 
preciate  and  thank  you  for  the  sincerity  and  earnestness  with 
which  you  have  sought  to  mould  my  judgment  by  your  own, 
and  will  reply  to  your  arguments  with  such  frankness  as  will, 
I  think,  persuade  you  that,  so  far  from  following  the  impulses 
of  a  blind  enthusiasm,  to  plunge  with  haste  and  precipitation 
into  a  course  of  action  hereafter  to  be  deplored,  I  am  actuated 
by  feelings  which  reason  approves,  and  which  have  already 
stood  the  test  of  experience. 

"  You  speak  truly  when  you  impute  to  me  a  natural  taste  for 
good  society;  a  taste  which  poverty,  and  the  retirement  in 
which  my  boyhood  was  passed,  gave  me  little  opportunity  to 
manifest,  but  which  had,  nevertheless,  no  small  influence  in 
determining  my  aims  and  ambition  in  life.  The  fine  houses, 
equipages,  and  clothes  of  the  rich  had  far  less  charm  to  my 
fancy  than  the  high-bred  ease,  refinement,  and  elegance  of  man 
ner  which  distinguished  some  few  of  their  owners  who  chanced 
to  come  under  my  observation ;  and  much  as  I  desired  the  at 
tainment  of  wealth  for  the  sake  of  its  own  intrinsic  advantages, 
and  the  means  it  would  afford  of  contributing  to  the  comfort 
and  happiness  of  others,  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  divested 
of  half  its  value  should  it  fail  to  secure  to  its  possessor  a  free 
admittance  to  the  polite  and  polished  circles  upon  which  I 
looked  with  admiring  eyes. 


410  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"I  needed  not,  therefore,  the  social  deprivations  I  expe 
rienced  in  India  to  prepare  me  to  enter  with  eager  zest  into  the 
excitement  and  pleasure  of  Parisian  life,  to  which,  through  the 
kindness  and  partiality  of  Mr.  Clinton,  I  obtained,  as  you  are, 
it  seems,  aware,  a  free  and  immediate  introduction. 

'"It  is  true  I  was  summoned  thither  at  a  time  when  my  spir 
its  had  been  for  months  struggling  with  the  depression  occa 
sioned  by  sad  news  from  home,  and  had  not,  therefore,  the 
least  disposition  to  avail  myself  of  Mr.  Clinton's  politeness; 
but  the  feebleness  of  his  health,  and  his  inability  to  enter 
largely  into  the  gayeties  of  the  place,  compelled  me  continually 
to  offer  myself  as  an  escort  to  his  daughter,  who,  fond  of  so 
ciety  and  reluctant  to  submit  to  any  exclusion  from  it,  inva 
riably  accepted  my  services,  thus  drawing  me  into  the  very 
whirl  and  vortex  of  fashionable  life;  in  which,  I  confess,  I 
soon  found  much  to  flatter,  bewilder,  and  intoxicate.  I  could 
not  be  insensible  to  the  privileges  so  unexpectedly  accorded  to 
me;  nor  could  my  vanity  be  wholly  proof  against  the  assaults 
made  upon  it.  Nor  was  my  manliness  of  character  alone  at 
stake.  My  position  in  fashionable  circles  threw  other  and 
more  serious  temptations  in  my  way.  The  soundness  of  prin 
ciple  and  simplicity  of  habit  implanted  in  me  from  childhood, 
and  hitherto  preserved  intact,  soon  found  themselves  at  stake. 
I  had  withstood  every  kind  of  gross  temptation,  but  my  new 
and  refined  associates  now  presented  it  to  me  in  that  more  sub 
tle  form  which  often  proves  a  snare  to  those  over  whom,  had 
it  come  without  disguise,  it  would  have  no  power.  The  wine- 
cup  could  never  have  enticed  me  to  the  coarse  and  disgusting 
scenes  of  drunken  revelry ;  but  held  in  the  hands  of  the  pol 
ished  gentlemen,  who  had  but  a  moment  before  been  the  re 
cipients  of  popular  favor  and  women's  smiles,  it  sparkled  with 
a  richer  lustre,  and  its  bitter  dregs  were  forgotten.  The  pro 
fessed  gamester,  the  well-known  rogue,  would  in  vain  have 
sought  me  for  an  accomplice;  but  I  was  not  equally  on  my 
guard  against  the  danger  which  awaited  me  from  other  and  un 
expected  quarters ;  for  how  could  I  believe  that  my  friends,  Mr. 
Clinton's  friends,  the  ornaments  of  the  sphere  in  which  they 
moved,  would  unfairly  win  my  money,  involve  me  in  entangle 
ments,  and  lead  me  on  to  ruin  ?  I  almost  wonder,  as  I  look 
back  upon  the  few  first  weeks  of  my  residence  in  Paris,  that  I 
did  not  finally  fall  a  victim  to  some  one  of  the  numerous  snares 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  411 

that  were  on  every  side  spread  for  my  destruction,  and  into 
which  my  social  disposition,  my  fearless  and,  at  the  same  time, 
unsophisticated  nature  rendered  me  especially  prone  to  fall. 
Nothing,  I  am  persuaded,  but  the  recollection  of  my  pure- 
minded  and  watchful  mother,  whose  recent  death  had  given 
new  freshness  and  life  to  the  memory  of  her  many  warning 
counsels,  —  at  the  time  they  were  bestowed  deemed  by  me  un 
necessary,  but  now,  in  the  moment  of  danger,  springing  up  and 
arming  themselves  with  a  solemn  meaning,  —  nothing  but  the 
consciousness  of  her  gentle  spirit  ever  hovering  around  my  path, 
saddened  by  my  conflicts,  rejoicing  in  my  triumphs,  could  ever 
have  given  me  courage  and  perseverance  to  resist,  shun,  and 
finally  escape  altogether  the  pitfalls  into  which  my  unwary 
steps  would  have  plunged  me. 

"These  darker  evils,  however,  successfully  combated  and  sub 
dued,  there  were  others  of  scarcely  less  magnitude  awaiting  me, 
and  in  which  much  of  my  future  well-being  and  usefulness  were 
involved.  In  the  unvaried  round  of  pleasure  in  which  my  days, 
and  nights  even,  were  frequently  passed,  there  was  much  to 
gratify  my  self-love,  foster  my  ambition,  and  annihilate  every 
worthier  emotion.  And  here,  believe  me,  my  safety  lay  in  my 
success.  Had  I  approached  the  outskirts  of  fashionable  life, 
and  been  compelled  to  linger  with  longing  eyes  at  the  threshold, 
I  might  even  now  be  loitering  there  a  deceived  spectator  of  joys 
which  it  was  not  permitted  to  me  to  enter  and  share,  or,  hav 
ing  gained  a  partial  entrance,  be  eagerly  employed  in  pushing 
my  way  onward. 

"  Admitted,  however,  at  once  into  the  very  arcana  of  a  sphere 
I  was  eager  to  penetrate,  my  eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  vain, 
hollow,  and  worthless  nature  of  the  bauble  Fashion.  Not  that 
I  did  not  meet  within  its  courts  the  grace,  wit,  talent,  and  re 
finement  which  I  had  hoped  to  find  there,  or  that  these  were 
invariably  accompanied  by  other  and  less  attractive  qualities. 
No ;  I  truly  believe  there  is  no  class  which  cannot  boast  of  its 
heroes  and  heroines,  and  that  there  are  within  the  walks  of 
fashionable  life  men  and  women  who  would  grace  a  wilderness. 
Nor  do  I  despise  forms  and  ceremonies  which  are  becoming  in 
themselves,  and  conducive  to  elegance  and  good  breeding.  As 
long  as  one  class  is  distinguished  by  education  and  refined  man 
ners,  and  another  is  marked  by  ignorance  and  vulgarity,  there 
should,  and  there  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  a  dividing 


412  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

line  between  the  two,  which  neither,  perhaps,  would  desire  to 
overstep. 

"  But  this  barrier  is  not  Fashion,  which,  both  abroad  and  at 
home,  oftentimes  excludes  the  former,  and  gives  free  admittance 
to  the  latter;  and  if  I  presume  to  adopt  a  higher  standard,  it  is 
because  I  have  had  so  close  an  acquaintance  with  that  already 
set  up,  that  I  can  judge  how  little  it  is  to  be  trusted." 

"You  are  young,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  "to  be  such  a  philoso 
pher.  Many  a  man  has  turned  away  with  disgust  from  an  aris 
tocracy  into  which  he  could  himself  gain  no  admittance;  but 
few  renounce  it  voluntarily." 

"Few,  perhaps,"  replied  Willie,  "few  young  men,  at  least, 
have  such  opportunities  as  I  have  had  to  penetrate  its  secrets. 
I  trust  I  may  say  without  treachery,  since  I  speak  in  general 
terms  only,  that  I  have  seen  more  ignorance,  more  ill  breeding, 
more  meanness,  and  more  immorality  in  the  so-called  aristo 
cracy  of  our  country  than  I  should  have  believed  it  possible 
would  be  tolerated  there.  I  have  frequently  known  instances 
in  which  the  most  accomplished  gentleman,  or  the  most  beauti 
ful  lady,  of  a  gay  circle,  has  given  evidence  of  unpardonable 
want  of  information  on  the  most  common  topics.  I  have  seen 
elegant  evening  assemblies  disgraced  by  a  degree  of  rudeness 
and  incivility  which  reflected  as  little  credit  on  the  taste  as  on 
the  feelings.  I  have  seen  the  profuse  and  lavish  expenditure 
of  to-day  atoned  for  by  a  selfish  and  despicable  parsimony  on 
the  morrow ;  and  I  have  seen  a  want  of  principle  exhibited  by 
persons  of  both  sexes,  which  proves  that  a  high  position  on 
earth  is  no  security  against  such  contamination  of  the  soul  as 
must  wholly  unfit  it  for  an  exalted  place  hereafter. " 

"I  have  witnessed  no  less  myself,"  said  Mr.  Amory;  "but 
my  experiences  have  not  been  like  those  of  other  men,  and  my 
sight  has  been  sharpened  by  circumstances.  I  am  still  aston 
ished  that  you  should  have  been  awake  to  these  facts." 

"I  was  not  at  first,"  answered  Willie.  "It  was  only  grad 
ually  that  I  recovered  from  the  dazzling,  blinding  effect  which 
the  glitter  and  show  of  Fashion  imposed  upon  the  clearness  of 
my  perceptions.  My  suspicions  of  its  falsehood  and  vanity 
were  based  upon  instances  of  selfishness,  folly,  and  cold-heart- 
edness  which,  one  after  another,  came  to  my  knowledge.  I 
could  relate  to  you  the  thousand  mean  deceits,  the  contempti 
ble  rivalries,  the  gross  neglect  of  sacred  duties,  which  came 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  413 

under  my  immediate  observation;  but  I  will  not  betray  the  se 
crets  of  individuals  or  weary  you  with  their  recital. 

"Especially  was  I  astonished  at  the  effect  of  an  uninterrupted 
pursuit  of  pleasure  upon  the  sensibilities,  the  tempers,  and  the 
domestic  affections  of  women.  Though  bearing  within  my 
heart  an  image  of  female  goodness  and  purity,  this  sweet  remem 
brance,  this  living  ideal,  might  possibly  have  been  driven  from 
its  throne,  and  supplanted  by  some  one  of  the  lovely  faces  which 
at  first  bewildered  me  by  their  beauty,  had  these  last  been  the 
index  to  souls  of  equal  perfection.  There  may  be  —  I  have 
no  doubt  that  there  are  —  noble  and  excellent  women  moving 
in  the  highest  walks  of  life,  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  other 
outward  adornments  are  less  admirable  than  their  own  high 
natures;  but  among  those  with  whom  I  became  familiarly  ac 
quainted  there  was  not  one  who  could  in  the  least  compare  with 
her  who  was  continually  present  to  my  memory,  who  is  still, 
and  ever  must  be,  a  model  to  her  sex. 

"  It  is  no  wonder  that  others  failed  to  come  up  to  my  concep 
tion  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  woman,  since  the  character  of  Ger 
trude  Flint  was  the  standard  by  which  each  in  my  mind  was 
measured.  How  could  I  help  contrasting  the  folly,  the  world- 
liness,  and  the  cold-heartedness  around  me  with  the  cultivated 
mind,  the  self-sacrificing  and  affectionate  disposition,  of  one 
who  possesses  every  quality  that  can  adorn  life,  whether  at 
home  or  abroad  ?  You  have  indeed  failed  to  convince  me  that 
Gertrude  can  in  any  way  be  a  drawback  or  disadvantage  to  the 
man  who  shall  be  so  fortunate  as  to  call  her  his.  For  my  own 
part,  I  desire  no  better,  no  more  truly  aristocratic  position  in 
life,  than  that  to  which  she  is  so  well  entitled,  and  to  which 
she  would  be  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments,  —  the  aristocracy 
of  true  refinement,  knowledge,  grace,  and  beauty.  You  talk 
to  me  of  wealth.  Gertrude  has  no  money  in  her  purse,  but  her 
soul  is  the  pure  gold,  tried  in  the  furnace  of  sorrow  and  afflic 
tion,  and  thence  come  forth  bright  and  unalloyed.  You  speak 
of  family  and  an  honorable  birth.  She  has  no  family,  and  her 
birth  is  shrouded  in  mystery ;  but  the  blood  that  courses  in  her 
veins  would  never  disgrace  the  race  from  which  she  sprung, 
and  every  throb  of  her  unselfish  heart  allies  her  to  all  that  is 
noble. 

"You  are  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  beauty.  When  I  parted 
from  Gertrude,  she  was,  in  all  but  character,  a  mere  child,  being 


414  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

only  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age.  Though  much  altered 
and  improved  since  the  time  when  she  first  came  among  us,  I 
scarcely  think  she  could  have  been  said  to  possess  much  of  what 
the  world  calls  beauty.  For  myself,  it  was  a  matter  of  which 
I  seldom  thought  or  cared;  and  had  I  been  less  indifferent  on 
the  subject,  she  was  so  dear  to  me  that  I  should  have  been  ut 
terly  unable  to  form  an  impartial  judgment  of  her  claims  in  this 
respect. 

"I  well  remember,  however,  the  indignation  I  once  felt  at 
hearing  a  fellow  clerk,  who  had  accidentally  met  her  in  one  of 
our  walks,  sneeringly  contrast  her  personal  appearance  with  that 
of  our  mutual  employer's  handsome  daughter,  the  same  Miss 
Clinton  of  whom  we  have  been  speaking ;  and  the  proportionate 
rapture  with  which  I  listened  to  the  excellent  teacher,  Miss 
Browne,  when  on  a  certain  occasion,  being  present  at  a  school 
examination,  I  overheard  her  commenting  to  a  lady  upon  Ger 
trude's  wonderful  promise  in  person  as  well  as  in  mind.  Whether 
the  first  part  of  this  promise  has  been  fulfilled,  I  have  no  means 
of  judging;  but  as  I  recall  her  dignified  and  graceful  little  fig 
ure,  her  large,  intelligent,  sparkling  eyes,  the  glow  of  feeling 
that  lit  up  her  whole  countenance,  and  the  peaceful,  almost 
majestic  expression  which  purity  of  soul  imparted  to  her  yet 
childish  features,  she  stands  forth  to  my  remembrance  the  em 
bodiment  of  all  that  I  hold  most  dear. 

"Six  years  may  have  outwardly  changed  her  much;  but  they 
cannot  have  robbed  her  of  what  I  prize  the  most.  She  has 
charms  over  which  time  can  have  no  power,  a  grace  that  is  a 
gift  of  Heaven,  a  beauty  that  is  eternal.  Could  I  ask  for  more  ? 

"Do  not  believe,  then,"  continued  he,  after  a  short  pause, 
"that  my  fidelity  to  my  early  playmate  is  an  emotion  of  grati 
tude  merely ;  it  is  true  I  owe  her  much,  —  far  more  than  I  can 
ever  repay ;  but  the  honest  warmth  of  my  affection  for  the  noble 
girl  springs  from  the  truest  love  of  a  purity  of  character  and 
singleness  of  heart  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled. 

"  What  is  there  in  the  wearisome  and  foolish  walks  of  Fash 
ion,  the  glitter  and  show  of  wealth,  the  homage  of  an  idle 
crowd,  that  could  so  fill  my  heart,  elevate  my  spirit,  and  in 
spire  my  exertions  as  the  thought  of  a  peaceful,  happy  home, 
blessed  by  a  presiding  spirit  so  formed  for  confidence,  love, 
and  a  communion  that  time  can  never  dissolve,  and  eternity 
will  but  render  more  secure  and  unbroken '( " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  415 

"  And  she  whom  you  love  so  well  ?  —  are  you  sure  —  "  asked 
Mr.  Phillips,  speaking  with  visible  effort,  and  faltering  ere  he 
had  completed  his  sentence. 

"No,"  answered  Willie,  anticipating  the  question.  "I  know 
what  you  would  ask.  I  am  not  sure.  I  have  no  reason  to  in 
dulge  the  hopes  I  have  been  dwelling  upon  so  fondly ;  but  I  do 
not  regret  having  spoken  with  such  openness  and  candor;  for 
should  she  grieve  my  heart  by  her  coldness,  I  should  still  be 
proud  to  have  loved  her.  Until  this  time,  ever  since  I  gained 
my  native  land,  I  have  been  shackled  by  duties,  which,  sacred 
as  they  were,  have  chafed  a  spirit  longing  for  freedom  to  follow 
its  own  impulses.  In  this  visit  to  you,  sir,"  and  as  he  spoke 
he  rose  to  depart,  "I  have  fulfilled  the  last  obligation  imposed 
upon  me  by  my  excellent  friend,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  at 
liberty  to  go  where  duty  alone  prevented  me  from  at  once  has 
tening." 

He  offered  his  hand  to  Mr.  Amory,  who  grasped  it  with  a 
cordiality  very  different  from  the  feeble  greeting  he  had  given 
him  on  his  entrance.  "Good-by,"  said  he.  "You  carry  with 
you  my  best  wishes  for  a  success  which  you  seem  to  have  so 
much  at  heart;  but  some  day  or  other  I  feel  sure  you  will  be 
reminded  of  all  I  have  said  to  you  this  evening." 

"  Strange  man ! "  thought  Willie,  as  he  walked  towards  his 
own  hotel.  "How  warmly  he  shook  my  hand  at  parting!  and 
with  what  a  friendly  manner  he  bade  me  farewell,  notwith 
standing  the  coldness  of  the  reception  he  gave  me,  and  the  per 
tinacity  with  which,  throughout  my  whole  visit,  I  rejected  his 
opinions  and  repelled  his  advice ! " 


416  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XLV 

Yet 't  is  a  weary  task  to  school  the  heart, 
Ere  years  of  griefs  have  tamed  its  fiery  spirit 
Into  that  still  and  passive  fortitude 
Which  is  but  learned  from  suffering. 

HEMANS. 

"Miss  GERTRUDE,"  said  Mrs.  Prime,  opening  the  parlor 
door,  putting  her  head  cautiously  in,  looking  round,  and  then 
advancing  with  a  stealthy  pace,  like  that  of  a  favorite  family 
cat  which  is  venturing  to  step  a  little  beyond  its  usual  limits, 
—  "my!  how  busy  you  are!  Lor's  sakes  alive,  if  you  ain't 
rippin'  up  them  great  curtains  of  Mis'  Graham's  for  the  wash! 
I  would  n't  be  botherin'  with  'em,  Miss  Gertrude;  she  won't  be 
here  for  this  fortnight,  and  Mis'  Ellis  will  have  time  enough." 

"O,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  Mrs.  Prime;  it 's  no  trouble." 
Then,  looking  up  pleasantly  at  the  old  cook,  she  added,  "It 
seems  very  cosy  for  us  all  to  be  at  home  again,  doesn't  it? " 

"It  seems  beautiful!"  answered  Mrs.  Prime  with  emphasis; 
"and  —  I  hope  there's  no  harm  in  sayin'  it  —  I  can't  help 
thinkin'  how  nice  it  would  be  if  we  could  all  live  on  jist  as 
we  are  now,  without  no  more  intrusions. " 

Gertrude  smiled  and  said,  "Everything  looks  as  it  used  to 
in  old  times,  when  I  first  came  here.  I  was  quite  a  child  then," 
continued  she,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Gracious  me !  What  are  you  now  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Prime. 
"For  mercy's  sake,  Miss  Gertrude,  don't  you  begin  to  think 
about  growin'  old!  There  's  nothing  like  feeling  young  to  keep 
young.  There  's  Miss  Patty  Pace,  now  —  " 

"I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  after  her,"  exclaimed  Gertrude, 
resuming  her  scissors,  and  commencing  to  rip  another  window 
curtain.  "  Is  she  alive  and  well  yet  ?  " 

"  She !  "  replied  Mrs.  Prime ;  "  lor,  she  won't  never  die !  Old 
women  like  her,  that  feels  themselves  young  gals,  allers  live 
forever;  but  I  came  a  purpose  to  speak  to  you  about  her.  The 
baker's  boy  that  fetched  the  loaves  this  mornin'  brought  an  ai- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  41 7 

rant  from  her,  and  she  wants  to  see  you  the  first  chance  she  can 
get;  but  I  wouldn't  hurry,  either,  about  goin'  there,  or  any 
where,  Miss  Gertrude,  till  I  got  rested;  for  I  believe  you  ain't 
well,  you  look  so  spent  and  kind  o'  tired  out." 

"Did  she  wish  to  see  me?  "asked  Gertrude.  "Poor  old 
thing!  I  '11  go  and  see  her  this  very  afternoon;  and  you  need  n't 
feel  anxious  about  me,  Mrs.  Prime,  —  I  am  quite  well. " 

And  Gertrude  went.  It  was  now  her  second  day  of  suspense ; 
and  this,  like  every  other  motive  for  action,  was  eagerly  hailed. 
She  found  Miss  Patty  nearly  bent  double  with  rheumatism, 
dressed  with  less  than  her  usual  care,  and  crouching  over  a 
miserable  fire,  built  of  a  few  chips  and  shavings.  She  appeared, 
however,  to  be  in  tolerable  spirits,  and  hailed  Gertrude's  en 
trance  by  a  cordial  greeting. 

The  curiosity  for  which  she  was  always  remarkable  seemed  to 
have  increased  rather  than  diminished  with  the  infirmities  of 
age.  Innumerable  were  the  questions  she  put  to  Gertrude  re 
garding  her  own  personal  experiences  during  the  past  year,  and 
the  movements  of  the  circles  in  which  she  had  been  living.  She 
showed  a  special  interest  in  Saratoga  life,  the  latest  fashions 
exhibited  there,  and  the  opportunities  which  the  place  afforded 
for  forming  advantageous  matrimonial  connections. 

"So  you  have  not  yet  chosen  a  companion,"  said  she,  after 
Gertrude  had  patiently  and  good-naturedly  responded  to  all 
her  queries.  "That  is  a  circumstance  to  be  regretted.  Not," 
continued  she,  with  a  little  smirk  and  a  slight  wave  of  the  hand, 
"that  it  is  ever  too  late  in  life  for  one  to  meditate  the  conjugal 
tie,  which  is  often  assumed  with  advantage  by  persons  of  fifty 
or  more ;  and  certainly  you,  who  are  still  in  the  bloom  of  your 
days,  need  not  despair  of  a  youthful  swain.  However,  exist 
ence,  I  may  say,  is  twofold  when  it  is  shared  with  a  congenial 
partner ;  and  I  had  hoped  that  before  now,  Miss  Gertrude,  both 
you  and  myself  would  have  formed  such  an  alliance.  Experi 
ence  prompts  me,  when  I  declare  the  protection  of  the  matri 
monial  union  one  of  its  greatest  advantages." 

"I  hope  you  have  not  suffered  from  the  want  of  it,"  said  • 
Gertrude. 

"  I  have,  Miss  Gertrude,  suffered  incalculably.  Let  me  im 
press  upon  you,  however,  that  the  keenest  pangs  have  been  those 
of  the  sensibilities ;  yes,  the  sensibilities,  —  the  finest  part  of 
our  nature  and  that  which  will  least  bear  wounding." 


418  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  been  thus  grieved, "  said 
Gertrude.  "I  should  have  supposed  that,  living  quite  alone, 
you  might  have  been  spared  this  trial." 

"0,  Miss  Gertrude ! "  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  lifting  up  both 
hands,  and  speaking  in  such  a  pitiable  tone  as  would  have  ex 
cited  the  compassion  of  her  listener  if  it  had  been  one  grain  less 
ridiculous,  —  "  O,  that  I  had  wings  of  a  dove,  wherewith  to  flee 
away  from  my  kindred!  I  fondly  thought  to  have  distanced 
them,  but  within  the  last  revolving  year  they  have  discovered 
my  retreat,  and  I  can  no  longer  elude  their  vigilance.  Hardly 
can  I  recover  from  the  shock  of  one  visitation,  —  made,  as  I  am 
convinced,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  taking  an  inventory  of  my 
possessions,  and  measuring  the  length  of  my  days,  —  before  the 
vultures  are  again  seen  hovering  round  my  dwelling.  But," 
exclaimed  the  old  lady,  raising  her  voice  and  inwardly  chuck 
ling  as  she  spoke,  "  they  shall  fall  into  their  own  snare ;  for  I 
will  dupe  every  one  of  them  yet ! " 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  any  relations, "  said  Gertrude; 
"and  it  seems  they  are  such  only  in  name." 

"Name!"  said  Miss  Pace  emphatically.  "I  am  animated 
with  gladness  at  the  thought  that  they  are  not  honored  with  a 
cognomen  which  not  one  of  them  is  worthy  to  bear.  No,  they 
pass  by  a  different  name;  a  name  as  plebeian  as  their  own 
coarse  souls.  There  are  three  of  them,  who  stand  to  each  other 
in  a  fraternal  relation,  and  all  are  alike  hateful  to  me.  One,  a 
contemptible  coxcomb,  comes  here  to  overawe  me  with  his  pre 
sence,  which  he  conceives  to  be  imposing;  calls  me  aunt  — 
aunt;  thus  testifying  by  his  speech  to  a  consanguinity  which 
he  blindly  fancies  makes  him  nearer  akin  to  my  property ! " 
The  old  lady,  excited  to  wrath,  almost  shrieked  the  last  word. 
"And  the  other  two,"  continued  she,  with  equal  heat,  "are 
beggars!  always  were  —  always  will  be  —  let  'em  be, — I'm 
glad  of  it ! 

"You  hear  me,  Miss  Gertrude;  you  are  a  young  lady  of  quick 
comprehension,  and  I  avail  myself  of  your  contiguity  —  which, 
although  you  deny  the  charge,  may  shortly  be  interrupted  by 
some  eager  lover  —  to  request  at  your  hands  a  favor,  such  as  I 
little  thought  once  I  should  ever  feel  compelled  to  seek.  I  want 
you  —  I  sent  for  you  to  write,"  Miss  Patty  lowered  her  voice 
to  a  whisper,  "the  last  will  and  testament  of  Miss  Patty  Pace." 

The  poor  woman's  trembling  voice  evidenced  a  deep  compas- 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  419 

sion  for  herself,  which  Gertrude  could  not  help  sharing ;  and 
she  expressed  a  willingness  to  comply  with  her  wishes  as  far  as 
was  in  her  power,  at  the  same  time  declaring  her  utter  ignorance 
of  all  the  forms  of  law. 

To  Gertrude's  astonishment,  Miss  Patty  announced  her  own 
perfect  acquaintance  with  all  the  legal  knowledge  which  the  case 
demanded;  and  in  so  complete  and  faultless  a  manner  did  she 
dictate  the  words  of  the  important  instrument  that,  being  after 
wards  properly  witnessed,  signed,  and  sealed,  it  was  found  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months  —  at  which  time  Miss  Patty  was  called 
upon  to  give  up  her  earthly  trust  —  free  from  imperfection  and 
flaw,  and  proved  a  satisfactory  direction  for  the  disposal  of  the 
inheritance. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here,  however,  that  he  who  was 
pronounced  sole  heir  to  her  really  valuable  property  never  availed 
himself  of  the  bequest  otherwise  than  to  make  a  careful  be 
stowal  of  it  among  the  most  needy  and  worthy  of  her  relatives. 
Notwithstanding  the  protestations  of  several  respectable  individ 
uals  who  were  present  at  the  attestation  of  the  document,  all 
of  whom  pronounced  Miss  Patty  sane  and  collected  to  her  last 
moments,  he  never  would  believe  that  a  sound  mind  could  have 
made  so  wild  and  erratic  a  disposal  of  the  hardly  earned  and 
carefully  preserved  savings  of  years. 

This  sole  inheritor  of  her  estates  was  William  Sullivan,  the 
knight  of  the  rosy  countenance;  and  the  same  chivalrous  spirit 
which  won  Miss  Patty's  virgin  heart  and  gained  for  him  her 
lasting  favor  prompted  him  to  disclaim  and  utterly  refuse  the 
acceptance  of  a  reward  so  wholly  disproportioned  to  the  slight 
service  he  had  rendered  the  old  lady. 

Though  he  could  not  fail  to  be  amused,  he  was,  nevertheless, 
deeply  touched  by  the  preamble  to  the  will,  in  which  Miss 
Patty  set  forth  in  a  most  characteristic  manner  the  feelings  and 
motives  which  had  influenced  her  in  the  choice  of  an  heir  to 
her  possessions. 

"  A  gentlewoman,  of  advanced  years,  who  has  clung  to  life 
and  its  hopes,  and  in  spite  of  many  vexatious  vicissitudes  feels 
something  loath  to  depart,  has  been  forcibly  reminded  by  her 
relations  that  ere  another  smiling  springtime  she  may  have  a 
call  to  join  the  deceased  line  of  Paces,  — a  family  which  will, 
on  her  departure,  here  become  extinct.  With  the  most  polite 
of  courtesies,  and  a  passing  wave  of  the  hand.  Miss  Patty  ac- 


420  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

knowledges  the  forethought  of  her  relations  of  the  other  branch, 
in  reminding  her,  before  it  be  too  late,  of  the  propriety  of 
naming  the  individual  for  whose  benefit  it  is  her  desire  to  make 
a  testamentary  provision. 

"  She  has  looked  about  the  world,  viewed  all  her  fellows  in 
the  glass  of  memory,  and  made  her  final  election.  The  youth 
himself  —  the  most  gallant  young  gentleman  of  his  day  —  will 
open  his  eyes  in  astonishment,  and  declare,  '  Madam,  I  know 
you  not ! '  But,  sir,  Miss  Patty,  old,  ugly,  and  infirm,  has  a 
heart  which  feels  as  keenly  as  it  did  in  youth.  She  has  not 
forgotten  —  she  means  now  to  signify,  by  her  last  deeds,  how 
vividly  she  remembers  —  the  rosy-cheeked  youth  who  once  raised 
her  from  the  frosty  earth,  took  her  withered  hand,  placed  it 
within  his  vigorous  young  arm,  and  with  sunny  smiles  and 
cheering  words  escorted  the  rheumatic  old  woman  to  a  refuge 
from  the  wintry  elements.  Miss  Patty  has  a  natural  love  of 
courtesy,  and  the  deference  offered  by  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
to  helpless  and  despised  old  age  has  touched  a  sensitive  chord. 
Miss  Patty  —  it  is  no  secret  —  has  some  little  hoarded  treasures ; 
and  since  she  cannot  be  on  the  spot  to  superintend  their  expen 
diture,  she  has,  after  some  struggles,  resolved  to  secure  them 
from  pollution  by  awarding  these  savings  of  years  to  one  pos 
sessed  of  such  true  gentility  as  Master  William  Sullivan,  confi 
dently  assured  that  he  will  never  disgrace  the  former  owner  of 
the  property,  or  permit  her  wealth  to  flow  into  vulgar  channels." 

Then  followed  an  inventory  of  the  estate,  —  a  most  remark 
able  estate,  consisting  of  odds  and  ends  of  everything;  and 
finally  a  carefully  and  legally  worded  document,  assigning  the 
whole  of  the  strange  medley,  without  legacies  or  incumbrances, 
to  the  sole  use  and  disposal  of  the  appointed  heir. 

Gertrude  found  it  no  easy  task  to  gather  and  transfix  in 
writing  the  exact  idea  which  the  old  woman's  rambling  dicta 
tion  was  intended  to  convey;  and  it  was  two  or  three  hours 
before  the  manuscript  was  completed,  and  the  patient  and  dili 
gent  scribe  permitted  to  depart. 

The  sky  was  overcast,  and  a  drizzling  rain  beginning  to  fall, 
as  she  commenced  walking  towards  home ;  but  the  distance  was 
not  great,  and  the  only  damage  she*  sustained  was  a  slight  damp 
ness  to  her  garments.  Emily  perceived  it  at  once,  however. 
"Your  dress  is  quite  wet,"  said  she.  "You  must  go  and  sit 
by  the  parlor  fire.  I  shall  not  go  down  until  tea  time,  but 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  421 

father  is  there,  and  will  be  glad  of  your  company ;  he  has  been 
alone  all  the  afternoon." 

Gertrude  found  Mr.  Graham  sitting  in  front  of  a  pleasant 
wood-fire,  half  dozing,  half  reading.  She  took  a  book  and  a 
low  chair  and  joined  him.  Finding  the  heat  too  great,  how 
ever,  she  soon  retreated  to  a  sofa  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room. 

Hardly  had  she  done  so  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front 
doorbell.  The  housemaid,  who  was  passing  by  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  immediately  ushered  in  a  visitor. 

It  was  Willie ! 

Gertrude  rose,  but  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  so  that  she 
dared  not  trust  herself  to  take  a  step  forward.  Willie  advanced 
into  the  centre  of  the  room,  then  looked  at  Gertrude,  bowed, 
hesitated,  and  said,  "  Miss  Flint !  —  is  she  here  ?  " 

The  color  rushed  into  Gertrude's  face.  She  attempted  to 
speak,  but  failed. 

It  was  not  necessary.  The  blush  was  enough.  Willie  re 
cognized  her,  and  starting  forward,  eagerly  seized  her  hand. 

"  Gerty !  is  it  possible  1 " 

The  perfect  naturalness  and  ease  of  his  manner,  the  warmth 
and  earnestness  with  which  he  took  and  retained  her  hand,  re 
assured  the  agitated  girl.  The  spell  seemed  partially  removed. 
For  a  moment  he  became  in  her  eyes  the  Willie  of  old,  her  dear 
friend  and  playmate,  and  she  found  voice  to  exclaim,  "0 
Willie !  you  have  come  at  last !  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you !  " 

The  sound  of  their  voices  disturbed  Mr.  Graham,  who  had 
fallen  into  a  nap,  from  which  the  ringing  of  the  doorbell  and 
the  entrance  of  a  strange  step  had  failed  to  arouse  him.  He 
turned  round  in  his  easy-chair,  then  rose.  Willie  dropped  Ger 
trude's  hand  and  stepped  towards  him.  "Mr.  Sullivan,"  said 
Gertrude,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  suitable  introduction. 

They  shook  hands,  and  then  all  three  sat  down. 

And  now  all  Gertrude's  embarrassment  returned.  It  is  not 
unfrequently  the  case  that  when  the  best  of  friends  meet  after 
a  long  separation  they  salute  or  embrace  each  other,  and  then, 
notwithstanding  the  weight  of  matter  pressing  on  the  mind  of 
each,  — sufficient,  perhaps,  to  furnish  subjects  of  conversation 
for  weeks  to  come,  —  nothing  of  importance  presents  itself  at 
once,  and  a  pause  ensues  which  is  finally  filled  up  by  some  most 
trivial  and  unimportant  question  concerning  the  journey  of  the 


422  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

newly  arrived  party,  or  the  safety  of  his  baggage.  But  to  these 
latter  questions,  or  any  of  a  similar  nature,  Gertrude  required 
no  answer.  She  had  seen  Willie  before;  she  was  aware  of  his 
arrival ;  knew  even  the  steamer  in  which  he  had  come,  but  was 
anxious  to  conceal  from  him  this  knowledge.  She  could  not 
tell  him,  since  he  seemed  so  ignorant  of  the  fact  himself,  that 
they  had  met  before ;  and  it  may  well  be  imagined  that  she  was 
at  an  utter  loss  what  to  do  or  say  under  the  circumstances.  Her 
embarrassment  soon  communicated  itself  to  Willie;  and  Mr. 
Graham's  presence,  which  was  a  restraint  to  both,  made  matters 
worse. 

Willie,  however,  first  broke  the  momentary  silence.  "I  should 
hardly  have  known  you,  Gertrude.  I  did  not  know  you. 
How  —  " 

"How  did  you  come?"  asked  Mr.  Graham  abruptly,  appar 
ently  unconscious  that  he  was  interrupting  Willie's  remark. 

"In  the  Europa,"  replied  Willie.  "She  got  into  New  York 
about  a  week  ago." 

"Out  here,  I  meant,"  said  Mr.  Graham  rather  stiffly.  "Did 
you  come  out  in  the  coach  1 " 

"0,  excuse  me,  sir,"  rejoined  Willie;  "I  misunderstood 
you.  No,  I  drove  out  from  Boston  in  a  chaise." 

"  Did  any  one  take  your  horse  ?  " 

"I  fastened  him  in  front  of  the  house." 

Willie  glanced  out  of  the  window  (it  was  now  nearly  dusk) 
to  see  that  the  animal  was  still  where  he  had  left  him.  Mr. 
Graham  settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair,  and  looked  into  the 
fire.  There  was  another  pause,  more  painful  than  the  first. 

"You  are  changed  too,"  said  Gertrude  at  last,  in  reply  to 
Willie's  unfinished  comment.  Then,  fearing  he  might  feel  hurt 
at  what  he  must  know  to  be  true  in  more  ways  than  one,  the 
color,  which  had  retreated,  mounted  once  more  to  her  cheeks. 

He  did  not  seem  to  feel  hurt,  however,  but  replied,  "Yes} 
an  Eastern  climate  makes  great  changes;  but  I  think  I  can 
hardly  have  altered  more  than  you  have.  Why,  only  think, 
Gerty,  you  were  a  child  when  I  went  away !  I  suppose  I  must 
have  known  I  should  have  found  you  a  young  lady,  but  I  begin 
to  think  I  never  fully  realized  it." 

"  When  did  you  leave  Calcutta  ?  " 

"  The  latter  part  of  February.  I  passed  the  spring  months  in 
Paris." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  423 

"You  did  not  write,"  said  Gertrude  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"No,  I  was  expecting  to  come  across  by  every  steamer,  and 
wanted  to  surprise  you." 

Conscious  that  she  had  probably  seemed  far  less  surprised 
than  he  expected,  she  looked  confused,  but  replied,  "  I  was  dis 
appointed  about  the  letters,  but  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again, 
Willie." 

"You  can't  be  so  glad  as  I  am,"  said  he,  lowering  his  voice, 
and  looking  at  her  with  great  tenderness.  "  You  seem  more  and 
more  like  yourself  to  me  every  minute  that  I  see  you.  I  begin 
to  think,  however,  that  I  ought  to  have  written,  and  told  you 
I  was  coming." 

Gertrude  smiled.  Willie's  manner  was  so  unchanged,  his 
words  so  affectionate,  that  it  seemed  unkind  to  doubt  his  friend 
liness,  although  to  his  undivided  love  she  felt  she  could  have 
no  claim. 

"No,"  said  she,  "I  like  surprises.  Don't  you  remember  I 
always  did  ? " 

"Remember?  —  Certainly,"  replied  he;  "I  have  never  for 
gotten  anything  that  you  liked." 

Just  at  this  moment  Gertrude's  birds,  whose  cage  hung  in 
the  window  at  which  Willie  sat,  commenced  a  little  twittering 
noise  which  they  always  made  just  at  night.  He  looked  up. 
"Your  birds,"  said  Gertrude,  — "the  birds  you  sent  me." 

"  Are  they  all  alive  and  well  ? "  asked  he. 

"Yes,  all  of  them." 

"  You  have  been  a  kind  mistress  to  the  little  things.  They 
are  very  tender." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  them." 

"  You  take  such  care  of  those  you  love,  dear  Gerty,  that  you 
are  sure  to  preserve  their  lives  as  long  as  may  be." 

His  tone,  still  more  than  his  words,  betrayed  the  deep  mean 
ing  with  which  he  spoke.  Gertrude  was  silent. 

"Is  Miss  Graham  well? "  asked  Willie. 

Gertrude  related,  in  reply,  that  her  nerves  had  been  recently 
much  disturbed  by  the  terrible  experiences  through  which  she 
had  passed;  and  this  led  to  the  subject  of  the  recent  disaster,- 
at  which  Gertrude  forbore  to  mention  her  having  been  herself 
present. 

Willie  spoke  with  feeling  of  the  sad  catastrophe,  and  with 
severity  of  the  reckless  carelessness  which  had  been  the  cause 


424  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

of  it ;  and  ended  by  remarking  that  he  had  valued  friends  on 
board  the  boat,  but  was  unaware  that  Miss  Graham,  whom  he 
loved  for  Gertrude's  sake,  was  among  them. 

Conversation  between  Gertrude  and  Willie  had  by  this  time 
assumed  a  footing  of  ease,  and  something  of  their  former  famil 
iarity.  The  latter  had  taken  a  seat  near  her,  on  the  sofa,  that 
they  might  talk  more  unrestrainedly;  for  although  Mr.  Gra 
ham  might  have  dropped  asleep  again  for  anything  they  knew 
to  the  contrary,  it  was  not  easy  wholly  to  forget  his  presence. 
There  were  many  subjects,  however,  on  which  it  would  have 
seemed  natural  for  them  to  speak  had  not  Gertrude  purposely 
avoided  them.  The  causes  of  Willie's  sudden  return,  his  prob 
able  stay,  his  future  plans  in  life,  and  especially  his  reasons 
for  having  postponed  his  visit  to  herself  until  he  had  been  in 
the  country  more  than  a  week,  —  all  these  were  inquiries  which 
even  ordinary  interest  and  curiosity  would  have  suggested;  but 
to  Gertrude  they  all  lay  under  embargo.  She  neither  felt  pre 
pared  to  receive  nor  willing  to  force  his  confidence  on  matters 
which  must  inevitably  be  influenced  by  his  engagement  with 
Miss  Clinton,  and  therefore  preserved  utter  silence  on  these 
topics,  even  taking  pains  to  avoid  them.  And  Willie,  deeply 
grieved  at  this  strange  want  of  sympathy  on  her  part,  forbore 
to  thrust  upon  her  notice  these  seemingly  forgotten  or  neglected 
circumstances. 

They  talked  of  Calcutta  life,  of  Parisian  novelties,  of  Ger 
trude's  school-keeping,  and  many  other  things,  but  spoke  not 
a  word  of  matters  which  lay  nearest  the  hearts  of  both.  At 
length  a  servant  appeared  at  the  door,  and  not  observing  that 
there  was  company,  announced  tea.  Mr.  Graham  rose  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  Willie  rose  also  and  prepared 
to  take  leave,  Mr.  Graham  with  frigid  civility  invited  him  to 
remain,  and  Gertrude  hesitated  not  to  urge  him  to  do  so;  but 
he  declined  with  such  decision  that  the  latter  understood  plainly 
that  he  perceived  and  felt  the  neglect  with  which  Mr.  Graham 
had  treated  him  and  his  visit.  In  addition  to  the  fact  that  the 
old  gentleman  disliked  young  men  as  a  class,  and  that  Willie 
had  intruded  upon  the  rare  and  sacred  privacy  in  which  he  was 
indulging,  there  was  the  bitter  and  still  rankling  recollection 
that  Gertrude  had  once  forsaken  himself  and  Emily  (for  so  he, 
in  his  own  mind,  styled  her  conscientious  choice  between  con 
flicting  duties)  for  the  very  family  of  which  their  visitor  was 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  425 

the  only  remaining  member;  a  recollection  which  did  not  tend 
to  soften  or  conciliate  the  easily  prejudiced  and  obstinate-minded 
man. 

Gertrude  accompanied  Willie  to  the  door.  The  rain  had 
ceased,  but  the  wind  whistled  across  the  piazza.  It  seemed  to 
be  growing  cold.  Willie  buttoned  his  coat,  while  he  promised 
to  see  Gertrude  on  the  following  day. 

"You  have  no  overcoat,"  said  she;  "the  night  is  chilly,  and 
you  are  accustomed  to  a  hot  climate.  You  had  better  take 
this  shawl ; "  and  she  took  from  the  hat-tree  a  heavy  Scotch 
plaid,  which  always  hung  there  to  be  used  on  occasions  like  the 
present. 

He  thanked  her  and  threw  it  over  his  arm ;  then  taking  both 
her  hands  in  his,  looked  her  steadily  in  the  face  for  a  moment, 
as  if  he  would  fain  have  spoken.  Seeing,  however,  that  she 
shrank  from  his  mild  and  affectionate  gaze,  he  dropped  her 
hands,  and  with  a  troubled  expression  bade  her  good-night,  and 
ran  down  the  doorsteps. 

Gertrude  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  door  in  her  hand  un 
til  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  as  he  drove  down 
the  road;  then  hastily  shutting  it,  ran  and  hid  herself  in  her 
own  room.  Well  as  she  had  borne  up  during  the  longed-for 
and  yet  much-dreaded  meeting,  calmly  and  naturally  as  she  had 
sustained  her  part,  her  courage  all  forsook  her  now,  and  in  look 
ing  forward  to  days,  weeks,  and  months  of  frequent  intercourse, 
she  felt  that  the  most  trying  part  of  the  struggle  was  yet  to  come. 

Had  Willie  been  wholly  changed,  had  he  seemed  the  thought 
less  worldling,  the  fashionable  man  of  society,  the  cold-hearted 
devotee  of  business  or  of  gain,  —  in  one  of  which  characters  she 
had  lately  half  fancied  he  would  appear,  —  had  he  greeted  her 
with  chilling  formality,  with  heartless  indifference,  or  with  awk 
ward  restraint,  she  might,  while  she  despised,  pitied,  or  blamed, 
have  learned  to  love  him  less.  But  he  had  come  back  as  he 
went,  open-hearted,  generous,  manly,  and  affectionate.  He  had 
manifested  the  same  unaffected  warmth  of  feeling,  the  same 
thoughtful  tenderness,  he  had  ever  shown.  In  short,  he  was 
the  Willie  she  had  thought  of,  dreamed  of,  imagined,  and  loved. 
It  was  evident  that  in  giving  his  heart  to  another  he  had  never 
wholly  forgotten  her ;  while  he  loved  Isabel,  he  would  still  feel 
a  friendly,  almost  a  brotherly  regard  for  Gertrude.  More  than 
that  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  bestow. 


426  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

And  she  must  school  herself  to  the  cruel  task  of  seeing  him 
day  by  day,  hearing  the  story  of  his  love  for  another,  and  wish 
ing  him  all  joy,  as  a  sister  might  do  a  kind  and  affectionate 
brother.  She  must  learn  to  subdue  the  love  whose  depth  and 
intensity  she  had  scarcely  known  until  now,  and  mould  it  into 
friendship.  As  she  thought  of  all  this  she  found  it  impossible 
to  still  the  wildly  beating  waves  that  swelled  against  her  aching, 
throbbing  heart.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  buried  her 
face  in  pillows,  and  wept. 

Presently  there  was  a  light  tap  at  her  door.  Believing  it  to 
be  a  summons  to  the  tea  table  she  said,  without  rising,  "Jane, 
is  that  you  ?  I  do  not  wish  for  any  supper. " 

"It  isn't  that,  miss,"  said  the  girl;  "but  I  have  brought 
you  a  letter." 

Gertrude  sprung  up  and  opened  the  door. 

"A  little  boy  handed  it  to  me  and  then  ran  off  as  fast  as  he 
could,"  said  the  girl,  placing  a  package  in  her  hand.  "He 
told  me  to  give  it  to  you  straight  away." 

"Bring  me  a  light,"  said  Gertrude. 

The  girl  went  for  a  lamp,  Gertrude  in  the  mean  time  en 
deavoring  to  judge  what  a  package  of  such  unusual  size  and 
thickness  could  contain.  She  thought  it  impossible  that  any 
letter  could  so  soon  arrive  from  Mr.  Amory.  The  next  morn 
ing  was  the  earliest  time  at  which  she  had  expected  one.  Who, 
then,  could  it  be  from  ?  And  while  she  was  wondering,  Jane 
brought  a  lamp,  by  the  light  of  which  she  at  once  detected  his 
handwriting;  and  breaking  the  seal  she  drew  from  the  envelope 
several  closely  written  pages,  whose  contents  she  perused  with 
all  the  eagerness  and  excitement  which  the  weight,  import,  and 
intense  interest  of  the  subject  might  well  demand. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  427 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

There  are  swift  hours  in  life,  —  strong,  rushing  hours, 
That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might ! 

HEMANS. 

IT  ran  as  follows  :  — 

MY  DAUGHTER,  —  My  loving,  tender-hearted  girl.  Now 
that  your  own  words  encourage  me  with  the  assurance  that  my 
worst  fear  was  unfounded  (the  fear  that  my  name  was  already 
blasted  to  your  young  ears  and  your  father  doomed  by  your 
young  heart  to  infamy),  —  now  that  I  can  appeal  to  you  as  to 
an  impartial  witness,  I  will  disclose  the  story  of  my  life ;  and 
while  I  prove  to  you  your  parentage,  will  hope  that  my  unpreju 
diced  child,  at  least,  will  believe,  love,  and  trust  her  father, 
in  spite  of  a  world's  injustice. 

I  will  conceal  nothing.  I  will  plunge  at  once  into  those  dis 
closures  which  I  most  dread  to  utter,  and  trust  to  after  expla 
nation  to  palliate  the  darkness  of  my  tale. 

Mr.  Graham  is  my  step-father,  and  my  blessed  mother,  long 
since  dead,  was  in  all  but  the  tie  of  nature  a  true  mother  to 
Emily.  Thus  allied,  however,  to  those  whom  you  love  best, 
I  am  parted  from  them  by  a  heavy  curse;  for  not  only  was 
mine  the  ill-fated  hand  (0,  hate  me  not  yet,  Gertrude !)  which 
locked  poor  Emily  up  in  darkness,  but  in  addition  to  that  horrid 
deed,  I  stand  accused  in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-men  of  another 
crime,  deep,  dark,  and  disgraceful.  And  yet,  though  living 
under  a  ban,  wandering  up  and  down  the  world  a  doomed  and 
a  broken-hearted  man,  I  am  innocent  as  a  child  of  all  inten 
tional  wrong,  as  you  will  learn  if  you  can  trust  to  the  truth  of 
the  tale  I  am  about  to  tell. 

Nature  gave  and  education  fostered  in  me  a  rebellious  spirit. 
I  was  the  idol  of  my  invalid  mother,  who  though  she  loved  me 
with  a  love  for  which  I  bless  her  memory  had  not  the  energy 
to  tame  and  subdue  the  passionate  and  wilful  nature  of  her  boy. 
Though  ungoverned,  however,  I  was  neither  cruelly  nor  viciously 
disposed;  and  though  my  sway  at  home  and  among  my  school- 


428  THE    LAMPLIGHTER 

fellows  was  alike  indisputable,  I  made  many  friends,  and  not  a 
single  enemy.  But  a  sudden  check  was  at  length  put  to  my 
freedom.  My  mother  married,  and  I  soon  came  to  feel,  and 
feel  bitterly,  the  check  which  her  husband,  Mr.  Graham,  was 
likely  to  impose  upon  my  boyish  independence.  Had  he  treated 
me  with  kindness,  had  he  won  my  affection  (which  he  might 
easily  have  done,  for  my  sensitive  and  impassioned  nature  dis 
posed  me  to  every  tender  and  grateful  emotion),  it  is  impossi 
ble  to  measure  the  influence  he  might  have  had  in  moulding 
my  yet  unformed  character. 

But  the  reverse  was  the  case.  His  behavior  towards  me  was 
that  of  chilling  coldness  and  reserve.  He  repelled  with  scorn 
the  first  advance  on  my  part,  which  led  me,  at  my  mother's  in 
stigation,  to  address  him  by  the  paternal  title,  —  an  offence  of 
which  I  never  again  was  guilty.  And  yet,  while  he  seemed  to 
ignore  the  relationship,  he  assumed  its  privileges  and  authority, 
thus  wounding  my  feelings  and  my  pride,  and  exciting  a  spirit 
of  rebellious  opposition  to  his  commands. 

Two  things  served  to  embitter  my  sentiments  and  strengthen 
my  growing  dislike  for  my  overbearing  step-father.  One  was 
the  consciousness  of  my  utter  dependence  upon  his  bounty ;  the 
other,  a  hint,  which  I  received  through  the  mistaken  kindness 
of  a  domestic  who  had  always  known  the  family,  that  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  dislike  to  me  had  its  origin  in  an  old  enmity  between 
himself  and  my  own  father,  — an  honorable  and  high-minded 
man,  whom  it  was  ever  my  greatest  pride  to  be  told  that  I  re 
sembled. 

Great,  however,  as  was  the  warfare  in  my  heart,  power  rested 
with  Mr.  Graham ;  for  I  was  yet  but  a  child,  and  necessarily 
subject  to  government.  Nor  could  I  be  deaf  to  my  mother's 
entreaties  that,  for  her  sake,  I  would  learn  submission.  It 
was  only  occasionally,  therefore,  when  I  had  been,  as  I  con 
sidered,  most  unjustly  thwarted,  that  I  broke  forth  into  direct 
rebellion ;  and  even  then  there  were  influences  ever  at  work  to 
preserve  at  least  outward  harmony  in  our  household.  Thus 
years  passed  on,  and  though  I  did  not  learn  to  love  Mr.  Gra 
ham  more,  the  force  of  habit,  the  intense  interest  afforded  by 
my  studies,  and  a  growing  capability  of  self-control  rendered 
my  mode  of  life  far  less  obnoxious  to  me  than  it  had  once  been. 

There  was  one  great  compensation  for  my  trials,  and  that 
was  the  love  I  cherished  for  Emily,  who  responded  to  it  with 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  429 

equal  warmth  on  her  part.  It  was  not  because  she  stood  be 
tween  me  and  her  father,  a  mediator  and  a  friend;  it  was  not 
because  she  submitted  patiently  to  my  dictation,  and  aided  me 
in  all  my  plans.  It  was  because  our  natures  were  made  for  each 
other,  and  as  they  grew  and  expanded,  were  bound  together  by 
ties  which  a  rude  hand  only  could  snap  and  rend  asunder.  I 
pause  not  to  dwell  upon  the  tenderness  and  depth  of  this  affec 
tion;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  it  became  the  life  of  my  life. 

At  length  my  mother  died.  I  was  at  that  time  —  sorely 
against  my  will  —  employed  in  Mr.  Graham's  counting-house, 
and  still  continued  an  inmate  of  his  family.  And  now,  without 
excuse  or  even  warning,  my  step-father  commenced  a  course  of 
policy  as  unwise  as  it  was  cruel ;  and  so  irritating  to  my  pride, 
so  torturing  to  my  feelings,  and  so  maddening  to  my  hot  nature, 
that  it  excited  and  angered  me  almost  to  frenzy.  He  tried  to 
rob  me  of  the  only  thing  that  sweetened  and  blessed  my  exist 
ence,  —  the  love  of  Emily.  I  will  not  here  recount  the  motives 
I  imputed  to  him,  nor  the  means  he  employed.  It  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  they  were  such  as  to  change  my  former  dislike  into 
bitter  hatred,  my  unwilling  obedience  to  his  will  into  open  and 
deliberate  opposition. 

Instead  of  submitting  to  what  I  considered  his  tyrannical 
interference,  I  sought  Emily's  society  on  all  occasions,  and 
persuaded  the  gentle  girl  to  lend  herself  to  my  schemes  for 
thwarting  her  father's  purposes.  I  did  not  speak  to  her  of 
love;  I  did  not  seek  to  bind  her  to  me  by  promises;  I  hinted 
not  at  marriage;  a  sense  of  honor  forbade  it.  But  with  a  boy 
ish  independence,  which  I  have  since  feared  was  the  height  of 
folly  and  imprudence,  I  sought  every  occasion,  even  in  her 
father's  presence,  to  manifest  my  determination  to  maintain  that 
constant  freedom  and  familiarity  of  intercourse  which  had  been 
the  growth  of  circumstances,  and  could  not,  without  force,  be 
restrained. 

At  length  Emily  was  taken  ill,  and  for  six  weeks  I  was  de 
barred  her  presence.  As  soon  as  she  was  sufficiently  recov 
ered  to  leave  her  room  I  constantly  sought  and  at  last  obtained 
an  opportunity  to  see  and  speak  with  her.  We  had  been  to 
gether  in  the  library  more  than  an  hour  when  Mr.  Graham 
suddenly  entered,  and  came  towards  us  with  a  face  whose  harsh 
ness  and  severity  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  I  did  not  heed  an 
interruption,  for  the  probable  consequences  of  which  I  believed 


430  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

myself  prepared.  I  was  little  prepared,  however,  for  the  nature 
of  the  attack  actually  made  upon  me. 

That  he  would  accuse  me  of  disobedience  to  wishes  which 
he  had  hinted  in  every  possible  way,  and  even  intimate  more 
plainly  than  before  his  resolve  to  place  barriers  between  Emily 
and  myself,  I  fully  expected,  and  was  ready  with  my  replies; 
but  when  he  burst  forth  with  a  torrent  of  unqualified  and  un- 
gentlemanly  abuse,  —  when  he  stormed  and  raved,  imputing  to 
me  mean,  selfish,  and  contemptible  motives,  which  had  never 
for  a  moment  influenced  me,  or  even  occurred  to  my  mind,  — 
I  was  struck  dumb  with  surprise,  impatience,  and  anger. 

But  this  was  not  all.  It  was  then,  in  the  presence  of  the 
pure-minded  girl  whom  I  worshipped,  that  he  charged  me  with 
a  dark  and  horrid  crime,  —  the  crime  of  forgery,  —  asserting 
my  guilt  as  recently  discovered,  but  positive  and  undoubted. 
My  spirit  had  raged  before,  now  it  was  on  fire.  I  lifted  my 
hand  and  clenched  my  fist.  What  I  would  have  done  I  know 
not.  Whether  I  should  have  found  words  to  assert  my  inno 
cence,  fling  back  the  lie,  and  refute  a  charge  as  unexpected  as 
it  was  false,  —  or  whether,  my  voice  failing  me  from  passion, 
I  should  have  swept  Mr.  Graham  from  my  path,  perhaps  felled 
him  to  the  floor,  while  I  strode  away  to  rally  my  calmness  in 
the  open  air,  —  I  cannot  now  conjecture ;  for  a  wild  shriek  from 
Emily  recalled  me  to  myself,  and  turning,  I  saw  her  fall  faint 
ing  upon  the  sofa. 

Forgetting  everything  then  but  the  apparently  dying  con 
dition  into  which  the  horror  of  the  scene  had  thrown  her,  I 
sprang  forward  to  her  relief.  There  was  a  table  beside  her, 
and  some  bottles  upon  it.  I  hastily  snatched  what  I  believed 
to  be  a  simple  restorative,  and  in  my  agitation  emptied  the 
contents  of  the  phial  in  her  face.  I  know  not  what  the  exact 
character  of  the  mixture  could  have  been ;  but  it  matters  not,  — 
its  effect  was  too  awfully  evident.  The  deed  was  done,  —  the 
fatal  deed,  —  and  mine  was  the  hand  that  did  it ! 

Brought  suddenly  to  consciousness  by  the  intolerable  torture 
that  succeeded,  the  poor  girl  sprung  screaming  from  the  sofa, 
flung  her  arms  wildly  above  her  head,  rushed  in  a  frantic  man 
ner  through  the  room,  and  finally  crouched  in  a  corner.  I  fol 
lowed,  in  an  agony  scarce  less  than  her  own;  but  she  repelled 
me  with  her  hands,  at  the  same  time  uttering  piercing  shrieks. 
Mr.  Graham,  who  for  an  instant  had  looked  like  one  paralyzed 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  431 

by  the  scene,  now  rushed  forward  like  a  madman.  Instead  of 
aiding  me  in  my  efforts  to  lift  poor  Emily  from  the  floor,  and 
so  far  from  compassionating  my  situation,  which  was  only  less 
pitiable  than  hers,  he,  with  a  fierceness  redoubled  at  my  being, 
as  he  considered,  the  sole  cause  of  the  disaster,  attacked  me 
with  a  storm  of  jeering  taunts  and  cruel  reproaches,  declaring 
that  I  had  killed  his  child.  With  words  like  these,  which  are 
still  ringing  in  my  ears,  he  drove  me  from  the  room  and  the 
house ;  a  repulsion  which  I,  overpowered  by  the  misery  of  con 
trition  and  remorse,  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the  strength  to 
resist. 

0,  the  terrible  night  and  day  that  succeeded!  I  can  give 
you  no  idea  how  they  were  passed.  I  wandered  out  into  the 
country,  spent  the  whole  night  walking  beneath  the  open  sky, 
endeavoring  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  compose  my  mind,  and 
still  morning  found  me  with  a  fevered  pulse  and  excited  brain. 
With  the  returning  light,  however,  I  began  to  realize  the  ne 
cessity  of  forming  some  future  plan  of  action. 

Emily's  sad  situation,  and  my  intense  anxiety  to  learn  the 
worst  effects  of  the  fatal  accident,  gave  me  the  strongest  motives 
for  hastening,  with  the  earliest  morning,  either  openly  or  by 
stealth,  to  Mr.  Graham's  house.  Everything  also  which  I 
possessed  —  all  my  money,  consisting  merely  of  the  residue  of 
my  last  quarter's  allowance,  my  clothing,  and  a  few  valuable 
gifts  from  my  mother  —  was  in  the  chamber  which  I  had  there 
occupied.  There  seemed,  therefore,  to  be  no  other  course  for 
me  than  to  return  thither  once  more,  at  least;  and  having  thus 
resolved,  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  city,  determined,  if  it  were 
necessary  in  order  to  gain  the  desired  particulars  concerning 
Emily,  to  meet  her  father  face  to  face.  As  I  drew  near  the 
house,  however,  I  hesitated,  and  dared  not  proceed.  Mr.  Gra 
ham  had  exhausted  upon  me  already  every  angry  word,  had 
threatened  even  deeds  of  violence,  should  I  ever  again  cross  his 
threshold ;  and  I  feared  to  trust  my  own  fiery  spirit  to  a  col 
lision  in  which  I  might  be  led  on  to  an  open  resistance  of  the 
man  whom  I  had  already  sufficiently  injured. 

In  the  terrible  work  I  had  but  yesterday  done, — a  work 
of  whose  fatal  effect  I  had  even  then  a  gloomy  foreshadowing, 
—  I  had  blighted  the  existence  of  his  worshipped  child,  and 
drawn  a  dark  pall  over  his  dearest  hopes.  It  was  enough.  I 
would  not,  for  worlds,  be  guilty  of  the  added  sin  of  lifting  my 


432  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

hand  against  the  man  who,  unjust  as  he  had  been  towards  an 
innocent  youth,  had  met  a  retaliation  far,  far  too  severe. 

Still,  I  knew  his  wrath  to  be  unmitigated,  was  well  aware 
of  his  power  to  excite  my  hot  nature  to  frenzy,  and  resolved  to 
beware  how  I  crossed  his  path.  Meet  him  I  must  to  refute 
the  false  charges  he  had  brought  against  me;  but  not  within 
the  walls  of  his  dwelling,  the  home  of  his  suffering  daughter. 
In  the  counting-house,  where  the  crime  of  forgery  was  said  to 
have  been  committed,  and  in  the  presence  of  my  fellow  clerks, 
I  would  publicly  deny  the  deed,  and  dare  him  to  its  proof. 
But  first  I  must  either  see  or  hear  from  Emily ;  before  I  met 
the  father  at  all  I  must  learn  the  exact  nature  and  extent  of 
the  wrong  I  had  done  him  in  the  person  of  his  child.  For  this, 
however,  I  must  wait  until,  under  cover  of  the  next  night's 
darkness,  I  could  enter  the  house  unperceived. 

So  I  wandered  about  all  day  in  torment,  without  tasting  or 
even  desiring  food  or  rest,  the  thought  of  my  poor,  darling, 
tortured  Emily  ever  present  to  my  wretched  thoughts.  The 
hours  seemed  interminable.  I  remember  that  day  of  suspense 
as  if  it  had  been  a  whole  year  of  misery.  But  night  came  at 
last;  cloudy,  and  the  air  thickened  with  a  heavy  fog,  which, 
as  I  approached  the  street  where  Mr.  Graham  lived,  enveloped 
the  neighborhood,  and  concealed  the  house  until  I  was  directly 
opposite  to  it.  I  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  physician's 
chaise  standing  before  the  door;  for  I  knew  that  Dr.  Jeremy 
had  closed  his  visits  to  Emily  more  than  a  week  previously, 
and  must  have  been  summoned  to  attend  her  since  the  accident. 
Finding  him  there,  and  thinking  it  probable  Mr.  Graham  was 
also  in  the  house  at  this  hour,  I  forbore  to  enter,  but  stood 
effectually  concealed  by  the  cloud  of  mist,  and  watching  my 
opportunity. 

Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  housekeeper,  passed  up  and 
down  the  staircase,  as  I  could  distinctly  see  through  the  side 
lights  of  the  door,  which  afforded  me  a  full  view  of  the  entry- 
way  ;  and  presently  Dr.  Jeremy  descended  slowly,  followed  by 
Mr.  Graham.  The  doctor  would  have  passed  hastily  out;  but 
Mr.  Graham  detained  him,  to  question  him  regarding  his  pa 
tient,  as  I  judged  from  the  deep  anxiety  depicted  on  my  step 
father's  countenance,  while,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the  shoul 
der  of  this  old  friend  of  the  family,  he  sought  to  read  his  opinion 
in  his  face.  The  doctor's  back  was  towards  me,  and  I  could 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  433 

only  judge  of  his  replies  by  the  effect  they  produced  on  the 
questioner,  whose  haggard,  worn  appearance  became  more  fear 
fully  distressed  at  every  syllable  that  fell  from  the  honest  and 
truthful  lips  of  the  medical  man,  whose  words  were  oracles  to 
all  who  knew  his  skill. 

I  needed,  therefore,  no  further  testimony  to  force  upon  me 
the  conviction  that  Emily's  fate  was  sealed;  and  as  I  looked 
with  pity  upon  the  afflicted  parent,  and  shudderingly  thought 
how  immediate  had  been  my  agency  in  the  work  of  destruction, 
I  felt  that  the  unhappy  father  could  not  curse  me  more  bitterly 
than  I  cursed  myself.  Deeply,  however,  as  I  mourned,  and 
have  never  ceased  to  repent,  my  share  in  the  exciting  of  that 
storm  wherein  the  poor  girl  had  been  so  cruelly  shipwrecked,  I 
could  not  forget  the  part  that  Mr.  Graham  had  borne  in  the 
transaction,  or  forgive  the  wicked  injustice  and  insults  which 
had  so  unnerved  and  unmanned  me  as  to  render  my  hand  a  fit 
instrument  only  of  ruin;  and  as,  immediately  after  the  doctor's 
departure,  I  watched  my  step-father  also  come  down  the  steps 
and  walk  away,  and  saw,  by  a  street  lamp,  that  the  look  of  pain 
had  passed  from  his  face,  giving  place  to  his  usual  composed, 
self-complacent,  and  arrogant  expression,  and  understood,  by  the 
loud  and  measured  manner  in  which  he  struck  his  cane  upon 
the  pavement,  that  he  was  far  from  sharing  my  humble,  peni 
tent  mood,  I  ceased  to  waste  upon  him  a  compassion  which  he 
seemed  so  little  to  require  or  deserve ;  and  pitying  myself  only, 
I  looked  upon  his  stern  face  with  a  soul  which  cherished  for 
him  no  other  sentiment  than  that  of  unmitigated  hatred. 

Do  not  shrink  from  me,  Gertrude,  as  you  read  this  frank 
confession  of  my  passionate  and,  at  that  moment,  deeply  stirred 
nature.  You  know  not,  perhaps,  what  it  is  to  hate ;  but  have 
you  ever  been  tried  as  I  was  1 

As  Mr.  Graham  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  I  approached 
his  house,  drew  forth  a  pass-key  of  my  own,  by  means  of  which 
I  opened  the  door,  and  went  in.  It  was  perfectly  quiet  within, 
and  no  person  was  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the  lower  rooms.  I  then 
passed  noiselessly  upstairs,  and  entered  a  little  chamber  at  the 
head  of  the  passage  which  communicated  with  Emily's  room. 
I  waited  here  a  long  time,  hearing  no  sound  and  seeing  no  one. 
At  length,  fearing  that  Mr.  Graham  would  shortly  return,  I 
determined  to  ascend  to  my  own  room,  which  was  in  the  next 
story,  collect  my  money,  and  a  few  articles  of  value,  which  I 


434  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

was  unwilling  to  leave  behind,  and  then  make  my  way  to  the 
kitchen,  and  gain  what  news  I  could  of  Emily  from  Mrs.  Prime, 
the  cook,  a  kind-hearted  woman,  who  would,  I  felt  sure,  befriend 
me. 

The  first  part  of  my  object  was  accomplished,  and  I  had 
descended  the  back  staircase  to  gain  Mrs.  Prime's  premises  when 
I  suddenly  encountered  Mrs.  Ellis  coming  from  the  kitchen, 
with  a  bowl  of  gruel  in  her  hand.  This  woman  was  a  recent 
addition  to  the  household,  introduced  there  a  few  weeks  before 
as  a  spy  upon  my  actions,  and  intolerable  to  me  on  that  account. 
She  was  well  acquainted  with  all  the  particulars  of  the  accident, 
and  had  been  a  witness  to  my  expulsion  from  the  house.  She 
stopped  short  on  seeing  me,  gave  a  slight  scream,  dropped  the 
bowl  of  gruel,  and  prepared  to  make  her  escape,  as  if  from  a  wild 
beast,  which  I  doubt  not  that  I  resembled,  since  wretchedness, 
fasting,  suffering,  and  desperation  must  all  have  been  depicted 
in  my  features. 

I  placed  myself  in  her  path,  and  compelled  her  to  stop  and 
listen  to  me.  But  before  my  eager  questions  could  find  utter 
ance,  an  outburst  from  her  confirmed  my  worst  fears. 

"Let  me  go!'7  she  exclaimed.  "You  villain!  you  will  be 
putting  my  eyes  out  next !  " 

"  Where  is  Emily  ?  "  I  cried.      "  Let  me  see  her !  " 

"  See  her !  "  replied  she.  "  You  horrid  wretch !  No !  she  has 
suffered  enough  from  you.  She  is  satisfied  herself  now ;  so  let 
her  alone." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  shouted  I,  shaking  the  housekeeper 
violently  by  the  shoulder,  for  her  words  seared  my  very  soul, 
and  I  was  frantic. 

"Mean?"  continued  she.  "I  mean  that  Emily  will  never 
see  anybody  again ;  and  if  she  had  a  thousand  eyes,  you  are  the 
last  person  upon  whom  she  would  wish  to  look ! " 

"Does  Emily  hate  me,  too  ?  "  burst  from  me  then,  in  the  form 
of  a  soliloquy  rather  than  a  question. 

The  reply  was  ready,  however.  "Hate  you?  Yes,  more 
than  that ;  she  cannot  find  words  that  are  bad  enough  for  you ! 
She  mutters  even  in  her  pain,  '  cruel !  —  wicked ! '  and  so  on. 
She  even  shudders  at  the  sound  of  your  name;  and  we  are  all 
forbidden  to  speak  it  in  her  presence." 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  turning,  rushed  out  of  the 
house. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  435 

That  moment  was  the  crisis  of  my  life.  The  thunderbolt 
had  fallen  upon  and  crushed  me.  My  hopes,  my  happiness,  my 
fortune,  my  good  name,  had  gone  before;  but  one  solitary  light 
had  until  now  glimmered  in  the  darkness.  It  was  Emily's  love. 
I  had  trusted  in  that,  —  that  only.  It  had  passed  away,  and  with 
it  my  youth,  my  faith,  my  hope  of  heaven.  I  was  a  blank  on 
the  earth,  and  cared  not  whither  I  went,  or  what  became  of  me. 

From  that  moment  I  ceased  to  be  myself.  Then  fell  upon 
me  the  cloud  in  which  I  have  ever  since  been  shrouded,  and 
under  the  shadow  of  which  you  have  seen  and  known  me.  In 
that  instant  the  blight  had  come,  under  the  gnawing  influence  of 
which  my  happy  laugh  changed  to  the  bitter  smile ;  my  frank 
and  pleasant  speech  to  tones  of  ill-concealed  irony  and  sarcasm; 
my  hair  became  prematurely  gray,  my  features  sharp  and  often 
times  severe;  my  fellow-men,  to  whom  it  had  been  my  noblest 
hope  to  prove  some  day  a  benefactor,  were  henceforth  the  armed 
hosts  of  antagonists,  with  whom  I  would  wage  endless  war ;  and 
the  God  whom  I  had  worshipped,  whom  I  had  believed  in,  as  a 
just  and  faithful  friend  and  avenger,  — who  was  He?  —  where 
was  He  1  —  and  why  did  He  not  right  my  cause  ?  What  direful 
and  premeditated  deed  of  darkness  had  I  been  guilty  of,  that  He 
should  thus  desert  me  1  Alas !  —  greatest  of  all  misfortunes,  — 
I  lost  my  faith  in  Heaven ! 

I  know  not  what  direction  I  took  on  leaving  Mr.  Graham's 
house.  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  of  the  streets  through  which 
I  passed,  though  doubtless  they  were  all  familiar ;  but  I  paused 
not  until,  having  reached  the  end  of  a  wharf,  I  found  myself 
gazing  down  into  the  deep  water,  longing  to  take  one  mad  leap, 
and  lose  myself  in  everlasting  oblivion! 

But  for  this  final  blow,  beneath  which  my  manhood  had  fallen, 
I  would  have  cherished  my  life  at  least  until  I  could  vindicate  its 
fair  fame ;  I  would  never  have  left  a  blackened  memory  for  men 
to  dwell  upon,  and  for  Emily  to  weep  over.  But  now  what  cared 
I  for  my  fellow-men  1  And  Emily  —  she  had  ceased  to  love, 
and  would  not  mourn;  and  I  longed  for  nothingness  and  the 
grave. 

There  are  moments  in  human  life  when  a  word,  a  look,  or  a 
thought  may  weigh  down  the  balance  in  the  scales  of  fate,  and 
decide  a  destiny. 

So  was  it  with  me  now.  I  was  incapable  of  forming  any 
plan  for  myself;  but  accident,  as  it  were,  decided  for  me.  I 


436  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

was  startled  from  the  apathy  into  which  I  had  fallen  by  the  sud 
den  splashing  of  oars  in  the  water  beneath,  and  in  a  moment  a 
little  boat  was  moored  to  a  pier  within  a  rod  of  the  spot  where 
I  stood.  At  the  same  instant  I  heard  quick  footsteps  on  the 
wharf,  and  turning,  saw  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  was  just 
appearing  from  behind  a  heavy  cloud,  a  stout,  sea-faring  man, 
with  a  heavy  pea  jacket  under  one  arm  and  an  old-fashioned 
carpet-bag  in  his  left  hand.  He  had  a  ruddy,  good-humored  face, 
and  as  he  approached,  and  was  about  to  pass  me  and  leap  into 
the  boat,  where  two  sailors,  with  their  oars  dipped  and  ready 
for  motion,  were  awaiting  him,  he  slapped  me  heartily  on  the 
shoulder  and  exclaimed,  "  Well,  my  fine  fellow,  will  you  ship 
with  us  ? " 

I  answered  as  readily  in  the  affirmative ;  and  with  one  look 
in  my  face,  and  a  glance  at  my  dress,  which  seemed  to  assure 
him  of  my  station  in  life,  and  probable  ability  to  make  compen 
sation  for  the  passage,  he  said  in  a  laughing  tone,  "In  with  you, 
then!" 

To  his  astonishment,  —  for  he  had  scarcely  believed  me  in 
earnest,  —  I  sprang  into  the  boat,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  on 
board  of  a  fine  bark,  bound  I  knew  not  whither. 

The  vessel's  destination  proved  to  be  Rio  Janeiro;  a  fact 
which  I  did  not  learn,  however,  till  we  had  been  two  or  three 
days  at  sea,  and  to  which,  even  then,  I  felt  wholly  indifferent. 
There  was  one  other  passenger  besides  myself,  — the  captain's 
daughter,  Lucy  Grey,  whom,  during  the  first  week,  I  scarcely 
noticed,  but  who  appeared  to  be  as  much  at  home,  whether  in 
the  cabin  or  on  deck,  as  if  she  had  passed  her  whole  life  at  sea. 
I  might  perhaps  have  made  the  entire  passage  without  giving 
another  thought  to  this  young  girl,  half  child,  half  woman,  had 
not  my  strange  and  mysterious  behavior  led  her  to  conduct  in 
a  manner  which  at  first  surprised,  and  finally  interested  me. 
My  wild  and  excited  countenance,  my  constant  restlessness, 
avoidance  of  food,  and  apparent  indifference  to  everything  that 
went  on  about  me,  excited  her  wonder  and  sympathy  to  the  ut 
most.  She  at  first  believed  me  partially  deranged,  and  treated 
me  accordingly.  She  would  take  a  seat  on  deck  directly  opposite 
mine,  look  in  my  face  for  an  hour,  either  ignorant  or  regardless 
of  my  observing  her,  and  then  walk  away  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
Occasionally  she  would  come  and  offer  me  some  little  delicacy, 
begging  that  I  would  try  and  eat;  and  as,  touched  by  her  kind- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  437 

ness,  I  took  food  more  readily  from  her  hand  than  any  other, 
these  little  attentions  became  at  last  habitual.  As  my  manners 
and  looks  grew  calmer,  however,  and  I  settled  into  a  melancholy, 
which,  though  equally  deep,  was  less  fearful  than  the  feverish 
torment  under  which  I  had  labored,  she  became  proportionately 
reserved ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  began  to  appear  somewhat  like  my 
fellow-men,  went  regularly  to  the  table,  and,  instead  of  pacing 
the  deck  all  night,  spent  a  part  of  it,  at  least,  quietly  in  my 
stateroom,  Lucy  absented  herself  wholly  from  that  part  of  the 
vessel  where  I  passed  the  greater  portion  of  the  day,  and  I  sel 
dom  exchanged  a  word  with  her,  unless  I  purposely  sought  her 
society. 

We  experienced  much  stormy  weather,  however,  which  drove 
me  to  the  cabin,  where  she  usually  sat  on  the  transom,  reading, 
or  watching  the  troubled  waves;  and  as  the  voyage  was  very 
long,  we  were  necessarily  thrown  much  in  each  other's  way,  es 
pecially  as  Captain  Grey,  the  same  individual  who  had  invited 
me  to  ship  with  him,  and  who  seemed  still  to  take  an  interest 
in  my  welfare,  good-naturedly  encouraged  an  intercourse  by 
which  he  probably  hoped  I  might  be  won  from  a  state  of  melan 
choly  that  seemed  to  astonish  and  grieve  the  jolly  shipmaster 
almost  as  much  as  it  did  his  kind-hearted,  sensitive  child. 

Lucy's  shyness,  therefore,  wore  gradually  away,  and  before 
our  tedious  passage  was  completed  I  ceased  to  be  a  restraint  upon 
her.  She  talked  freely  with,  or  rather  to  me ;  for  while,  not 
withstanding  her  occasional  intimations  of  curiosity,  I  maintained 
a  rigid  silence  concerning  my  own  past  experiences,  of  which  I 
could  scarcely  endure  to  think,  much  less  to  speak,  she  exerted 
herself  freely  for  my  entertainment,  and  related,  with  simple 
frankness,  almost  every  circumstance  of  her  past  life.  Some 
times  I  listened  attentively;  sometimes,  absorbed  in  my  own 
painful  reflections,  I  would  be  deaf  to  her  voice,  and  forgetful 
of  her  presence.  In  the  latter  case,  I  would  often  observe,  how 
ever,  that  she  had  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  and  starting  from 
my  reverie,  and  looking  quickly  up,  would  find  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  me  so  reproachfully  that,  rallying  my  self-command,  I 
would  endeavor  to  appear,  and  not  unfrequently  really  became, 
seriously  interested  in  the  artless  narratives  of  my  little  enter 
tainer.  She  told  me  that  until  she  was  fourteen  years  old  she 
lived  with  her  mother  in  a  little  cottage  on  Cape  Cod,  their  home 
being  only  occasionally  enlivened  by  the  return  of  her  father 


438  THE   LAMPLIGHTER 

from  his  long  absences  at  sea.  They  would  then  usually  make 
a  visit  to  the  city  where  his  vessel  lay,  pass  a  few  weeks  in  un 
interrupted  enjoyment,  and  at  length  return  home  to  mourn  the 
departure  of  the  cheerful,  light-hearted  sea  captain,  and  patiently 
count  the  weeks  and  months  until  he  would  come  back  again. 

She  told  me  how  her  mother  died  at  last;  how  bitterly  she 
mourned  her  loss ;  and  how  her  father  wept  when  he  came  home 
and  heard  the  news ;  how  she  had  lived  on  shipboard  ever  since, 
and  how  sad  and  lonely  she  felt  in  time  of  storms,  when,  the 
master  at  his  post  of  duty,  she  sat  alone  in  the  cabin,  listening 
to  the  roar  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

Tears  would  come  into  her  eyes  when  she  spoke  of  these 
things,  and  I  would  look  upon  her  with  pity,  as  one  whom  sorrow 
made  my  sister.  Trial,  however,  had  not  yet  robbed  her  of  an 
elastic,  buoyant  spirit ;  and  when,  five  minutes  after  the  com 
pletion  of  some  eloquent  little  tale  of  early  grief,  the  captain 
would  approach  unseen,  and  surprise  her  by  a  sudden  joke,  ex 
clamation,  or  sly  piece  of  mischief,  thus  provoking  her  to  retal 
iate,  she  was  always  ready  and  alert  for  a  war  of  wits,  a  laughing 
frolic,  or  even  a  game  of  romps.  Her  sorrow  forgotten  and  her 
tears  dried  up,  her  merry  voice  and  her  playful  words  would 
delight  her  father,  and  the  cabin  or  the  deck  would  ring  with 
his  joyous  peals  of  laughter;  while  I,  shrinking  from  a  mirth 
and  gayety  sadly  at  variance  with  my  own  unhappiness,  and  the 
sound  of  which  was  discordant  to  my  sensitive  nerves,  would 
retire  to  brood  over  miseries  for  which  it  was  hopeless  to  expect 
sympathy,  which  could  not  be  shared,  and  with  which  I  must 
dwell  alone. 

Such  a  misanthrope  had  my  misfortunes  made  me  that  the 
sportive  raillery  between  the  captain  and  his  merry  daughter, 
and  the  musical  laugh  with  which  she  would  respond  to  the 
occasional  witticisms  of  one  or  two  old  and  privileged  sailors, 
grated  upon  my  ears  like  something  scarce  less  than  personal 
injuries;  nor  could  I  have  believed  it  possible  that  one  so  little 
able  as  Lucy  to  comprehend  the  depth  of  my  sufferings  could 
feel  any  sincere  compassion  for  them,  had  I  not  once  or  twice 
been  touched  to  see  how  her  innocent  mirth  would  give  place  to 
sudden  gravity  and  sadness  of  countenance,  if  she  chanced  un 
expectedly  to  encounter  my  woe-begone  face,  rendered  doubly 
gloomy  when  contrasted  with  the  gayety  of  herself  and  her  com 
panions. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  439 

But  I  must  not  linger  too  long  upon  the  details  of  our  life 
on  shipboard;  for  I  have  to  relate  events  which  occupied  many 
years,  and  must  confine  myself,  as  far  as  possible,  to  a  concise 
statement  of  facts.  I  must  forbear  giving  any  account  of  a  ter 
rific  gale  that  we  encountered,  during  which,  for  two  days  and 
a  night,  poor  Lucy  was  half  frantic  with  fear,  while  I,  careless 
of  outward  discomforts  and  indifferent  to  personal  danger,  was 
afforded  an  opportunity  to  requite  her  kindness  by  such  protec 
tion  and  encouragement  as  I  was  able  to  render.  But  this,  and 
various  other  incidents  of  the  voyage,  all  bore  a  part  in  inspir 
ing  her  with  a  degree  of  confidence  in  me  which,  by  the  time 
we  arrived  in  port,  was  put  to  a  severe  and  somewhat  embar 
rassing  test. 


440  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER   XL VII 

Do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  prayer  ! 
For  this  wandering,  ever  longer,  evermore, 

Hath  overworn  me, 
And  I  know  not  on  what  shore 
I  may  rest  from  my  despair.  E.  B.  BROWNING. 

CAPTAIN  OBEY  died.  We  were  within  a  week's  sail  of  our 
destination  when  he  was  taken  ill,  and  three  days  before  we 
were  safely  anchored  in  the  harbor  of  Rio  he  breathed  his  last. 
I  shared  with  Lucy  the  office  of  ministering  to  the  suffering 
man,  closed  his  eyes  at  last,  and  carried  the  fainting  girl  in 
my  arms  to  another  part  of  the  vessel.  With  kind  words  and 
persuasions  I  restored  her  to  her  senses;  and  then,  as  the  full 
consciousness  of  her  desolation  rushed  upon  her,  she  sunk  at 
once  into  a  state  of  hopeless  despondency,  more  painful  to  wit 
ness  than  her  previous  condition  of  utter  insensibility.  Cap 
tain  Grey  had  made  no  provision  for  his  daughter;  indeed,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  do  so,  as  the  state  of  his 
affairs  afterwards  proved.  Well  might  the  poor  girl  lament  her 
sad  fate !  for  she  was  without  a  relative  in  the  world,  penniless, 
and  approaching  a  strange  shore  which  afforded  no  refuge  to  the 
orphan.  We  buried  her  father  in  the  sea;  and  that  sad  office 
fulfilled,  I  sought  Lucy  and  endeavored,  as  I  had  several  times 
tried  to  do  without  success,  to  arouse  her  to  a  sense  of  her  situ 
ation,  and  advise  with  her  concerning  the  future ;  for  we  were 
now  so  near  our  port  that  in  a  few  hours  we  might  be  compelled 
to  leave  the  vessel  and  seek  quarters  in  the  city.  She  listened 
to  me  without  replying. 

At  length  I  hinted  at  the  necessity  of  my  leaving  her,  and 
begged  to  know  if  she  had  any  plans  for  the  future.  She  an 
swered  me  only  by  a  burst  of  tears. 

I  expressed  the  deepest  sympathy  for  her  grief  and  begged 
her  not  to  weep. 

And  then,  with  many  sobs,  and  interrupting  herself  by  fre- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  441 

quent  outbreaks  and  exclamations  of  vehement  sorrow,  she  threw 
herself  upon  my  compassion,  and  with  unaffected  simplicity  and 
childlike  artlessness  entreated  me  not  to  leave,  or,  as  she  termed 
it,  to  desert  her.  She  reminded  me  that  she  was  all  alone  in 
the  world ;  that  the  moment  she  stepped  foot  on  shore  she  should 
be  in  a  land  of  strangers;  and  appealing  to  my  mercy,  besought 
me  not  to  forsake  and  leave  her  to  die  alone. 

What  could  I  do  ?  I  had  nothing  on  earth  to  live  for.  We 
were  both  alike  orphaned  and  desolate.  There  was  but  one  point 
of  difference.  I  could  work  and  protect  her ;  she  could  do  neither 
for  herself.  It  would  be  something  for  me  to  live  for;  and  for 
her,  though  but  a  refuge  of  poverty  and  want,  it  was  better  than 
the  exposure  and  suffering  that  must  otherwise  await  her.  I  told 
her  plainly  how  little  I  had  to  offer ;  that  my  heart  even  was 
crushed  and  broken ;  but  that  I  was  ready  to  labor  in  her  be 
half,  to  guard  her  from  danger,  to  pity,  and  perhaps,  in  time, 
learn  to  love  her. 

The  unsophisticated  girl  had  never  thought  of  marriage ;  she 
had  sought  the  protection  of  a  friend,  not  a  husband;  but  I  ex 
plained  to  her  that  the  latter  tie  only  would  obviate  the  neces 
sity  of  our  parting;  and  in  the  humility  of  sorrow  she  finally 
accepted  my  unflattering  offer. 

The  only  confidant  to  our  sudden  engagement,  the  only  wit 
ness  of  the  marriage,  which,  within  a  few  hours,  ensued,  was  a 
veteran  mariner,  an  old,  weather-beaten  sailor,  who  had  known 
and  loved  Lucy  from  her  childhood,  and  whose  name  will  be, 
perhaps,  familiar  to  you,  —  Ben  Grant.  He  accompanied  us  on 
shore,  and  to  the  church,  which  was  our  first  destination.  He 
followed  us  to  the  humble  lodgings  with  which  we  contrived  for 
the  present  to  be  contented,  and  devoted  himself  to  Lucy  with 
self-sacrificing  but  in  one  instance,  alas !  (as  you  will  soon  learn) 
with  mistaken  and  fatal  zeal. 

After  much  difficulty  I  obtained  employment  from  a  man  in 
whom  I  accidentally  recognized  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  my 
father.  He  had  been  in  Rio  several  years,  was  actively  engaged 
in  trade,  and  willingly  employed  me  as  clerk,  occasionally  dis 
patching  me  from  home  to  transact  business  at  a  distance.  My 
duties  being  regular  and  profitable,  we  were  soon  not  only  raised 
above  want,  but  I  was  enabled  to  place  my  young  wife  in  a 
situation  that  insured  comfort,  if  not  luxury. 

The  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  the  cheerfulness  with  which 


442  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

she  endured  privation,  the  earnestness  with  which  she  strove  to 
make  me  happy,  were  not  without  effect.  I  perseveringly  rallied 
from  my  gloom;  I  succeeded  in  banishing  the  frown  from  my 
brow ;  and  the  premature  wrinkles,  which  her  little  hand  would 
softly  sweep  away,  finally  ceased  to  return.  The  few  months 
that  I  passed  with  your  mother,  Gertrude,  form  a  sweet  episode 
in  the  memory  of  my  stormy  life.  I  came  to  love  her  much  — 
not  as  I  loved  Emily ;  that  could  not  be  expected,  —  but,  as 
the  solitary  flower  that  bloomed  on  the  grave  of  all  my  early 
hopes,  she  cast  a  fragrance  round  my  path ;  and  her  child  is  not 
more  dear  to  me  because  a  part  of  myself  than  as  the  memento 
of  the  cherished  blossom,  snatched  hastily  from  my  hand  and 
rudely  crushed. 

About  two  months  after  your  birth,  my  child,  and  before 
your  eyes  had  ever  learned  to  brighten  at  the  sight  of  your  fa 
ther,  who  was  necessarily  much  from  home,  the  business  in 
which  I  was  engaged  called  me,  in  the  capacity  of  an  agent,  to 
a  station  at  some  distance  from  Rio.  I  had  been  absent  nearly 
a  month,  had  extended  my  journey  beyond  my  original  inten 
tions,  and  had  written  regularly  to  Lucy  informing  her  of  all 
my  movements  (though  I  have  since  believed  that  the  letters 
never  reached  her),  when  the  neighborhood  in  which  I  was 
stationed  became  infected  with  a  fatal  malaria.  For  the  sake 
of  my  family  I  took  every  measure  to  ward  off  contagion,  but 
failed.  I  was  seized  with  the  terrible  fever,  and  lay  for  weeks 
at  the  point  of  death.  I  was  cruelly  neglected  during  my  ill 
ness  ;  for  I  had  no  friends  near  me  and  my  slender  purse  held 
out  little  inducement  for  mercenary  service;  but  my  sufferings 
and  forebodings  on  account  of  Lucy  and  yourself  were  far  greater 
than  any  which  I  endured  from  my  bodily  torments,  although 
the  latter  were  great  indeed.  I  conjured  up  every  fear  that 
the  imagination  could  conceive ;  but  nothing,  alas !  which  could 
compare  with  the  reality  that  awaited  me,  when,  after  an  almost 
interminable  illness,  I  made  my  way,  destitute,  ragged,  and 
emaciated,  back  to  Rio.  I  sought  my  former  home.  It  was 
deserted,  and  I  was  warned  to  flee  from  its  vicinity,  as  the  fear 
ful  disease  of  which  I  had  already  been  the  prey  had  nearly 
depopulated  that  and  the  neighboring  streets.  I  made  every 
inquiry,  but  could  obtain  no  intelligence  of  my  wife  and  child. 
I  hastened  to  the  horrible  charnel-house  where,  during  the  rag 
ing  of  the  pestilence,  the  unrecognized  dead  were  exposed;  but 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  443 

among  the  disfigured  and  mouldering  remains  it  was  impossible 
to  distinguish  friends  from  strangers.  I  lingered  about  the  city 
for  weeks,  in  hopes  to  gain  some  information  concerning  Lucy ; 
but  could  find  no  one  who  had  ever  heard  of  her.  All  day  I 
wandered  about  the  streets  and  on  the  wharves,  —  the  latter 
being  places  which  Ben  Grant  (in  whose  faithful  charge  I  had 
left  your  mother  and  yourself)  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting, 
—  but  not  a  syllable  could  I  learn  of  any  persons  that  answered 
my  description. 

My  first  thought  had  been  that  they  would  naturally  seek 
my  employer,  to  learn,  if  possible,  the  cause  of  my  prolonged 
absence;  and  on  finding  my  home  empty,  I  had  hastened  in 
search  of  him.  But  he,  too,  had,  within  a  recent  period,  fallen 
a  victim  to  the  prevailing  distemper.  His  place  of  business 
was  closed  and  the  establishment  broken  up.  I  prolonged  my 
search  and  continued  my  inquiries  until  hope  died  within  me. 
I  was  assured  that  scarce  an  inmate  of  the  fatal  neighborhood 
where  I  had  left  my  family  had  escaped  the  withering  blast; 
and  convinced,  finally,  that  my  fate  was  still  pursuing  me  with 
an  unmitigated  wrath,  of  which  this  last  blow  was  but  a  single 
expression  that  I  might  have  foreseen  and  expected,  I  madly 
agreed  to  work  my  passage  in  the  first  vessel  which  promised 
me  an  escape  from  scenes  so  fraught  with  harrowing  recollections. 

And  now  commenced  in  truth  that  course  of  wretched  wan 
dering,  which,  knowing  neither  pause  nor  cessation,  has  made 
up  the  sum  of  my  existence.  With  varied  ends  in  view,  fol 
lowing  strongly  contrasted  employments,  and  with  fluctuating 
fortune,  I  have  travelled  over  the  world.  My  feet  have  trodden 
almost  every  land;  I  have  sailed  upon  every  sea,  and  breathed 
the  air  of  every  clime.  I  am  familiar  with  the  city  and  the 
wilderness,  the  civilized  man  and  the  savage.  I  have  learned 
the  sad  lesson  that  peace  is  nowhere,  and  friendship  for  the  most 
part  but  a  name.  If  I  have  taught  myself  to  hate,  shun,  and 
despise  humanity,  it  is  because  I  know  it  well. 

Once,  during  my  wanderings,  I  visited  the  home  of  my  boy 
hood.  Unseen  and  unknown  I  trod  familiar  ground,  and  gazed 
on  familiar  though  time-worn  faces.  I  stood  at  the  window 
of  Mr.  Graham's  library ;  saw  the  contented,  happy  countenance 
of  Emily,  —  happy  in  her  blindness  and  her  forgetfulness  of 
the  past.  A  young  girl  sat  near  the  fire,  endeavoring  to  read 
by  its  flickering  light.  I  knew  not  then  what  gave  such  a 


444  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

charm  to  her  thoughtful  features,  nor  why  my  eyes  dwelt  upon 
them  with  a  rare  pleasure;  for  there  was  no  voice  to  proclaim 
to  the  father's  heart  that  he  looked  on  the  face  of  his  child. 
I  am  not  sure  that  the  strong  impulse  which  prompted  me  then 
to  enter,  acknowledge  my  identity,  and  beg  Emily  to  speak  to 
me  a  word  of  forgiveness,  might  not  have  prevailed  over  the 
dread  of  her  displeasure;  but  Mr.  Graham  at  the  moment  made 
his  appearance,  cold  and  implacable  as  ever ;  I  looked  upon  him 
an  instant,  then  fled  from  the  house,  and  the  next  day  departed 
for  other  lands. 

Although,  in  the  various  labors  which  I  was  compelled  to 
undertake,  to  earn  for  myself  a  decent  maintenance,  I  had  more 
than  once  met  with  such  success  as  to  give  me  temporary  inde 
pendence,  and  enable  me  to  indulge  myself  in  expensive  travel 
ling,  I  had  never  amassed  a  fortune ;  indeed,  I  had  not  cared  to 
do  so,  since  I  had  no  use  for  money,  except  to  employ  it  in  the 
gratification  of  my  immediate  wants.  Accident,  however,  at 
last  thrust  upon  me  a  wealth  which  I  could  scarcely  be  said  to 
have  sought. 

After  a  year  spent  in  the  wilderness  of  the  west,  amid  ad 
ventures  the  relation  of  which  would  seem  to  you  almost  incred 
ible,  I  gradually  continued  my  retreat  across  the  country,  and 
after  encountering  innumerable  hardships  in  a  solitary  journey, 
which  had  in  it  no  other  object  than  the  indulgence  of  my  va 
grant  habits,  I  found  myself  in  that  land  which  has  recently 
been  termed  the  land  of  promise,  but  which  has  proved  to  many 
a  greedy  emigrant  a  land  of  falsehood  and  deceit.  For  me,  how 
ever,  who  sought  it  not,  it  showered  gold.  I  was  among  the 
earliest  discoverers  of  its  treasure  vaults,  —  one  of  the  most 
successful,  though  the  least  laborious,  of  the  seekers  after  gain. 
Nor  was  it  merely,  or,  indeed,  chiefly,  at  the  mines  that  fortune 
favored  me.  With  the  first  results  of  my  labors  I  chanced  to 
purchase  an  immense  tract  of  land,  little  dreaming  at  the  time 
that  those  desert  acres  were  destined  to  become  the  streets  and 
squares  of  a  great  and  prosperous  city. 

So  it  was,  however;  and  without  effort,  almost  without  my 
own  knowledge,  I  achieved  the  greatness  which  springs  from 
untold  wealth. 

But  this  was  not  all.  The  blessed  accident  which  led  me 
to  this  golden  land  was  the  means  of  disclosing  a  pearl  of  prices 
a  treasure  in  comparison  with  which  California  and  all  its  mine? 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE  445 

shrink  to  my  mind  into  insignificance.  You  know  how  the  war- 
cry  went  forth  to  all  lands,  and  men  of  every  name  and  nation 
brought  their  arms  to  the  field  of  fortune.  Famine  came  next, 
with  disease  and  death  in  its  train;  and  many  a  man,  hurrying 
on  to  reap  the  golden  harvest,  fell  by  the  wayside,  without  once 
seeing  the  waving  of  the  yellow  grain. 

Half  scorning  the  greedy  rabble,  I  could  not  refuse,  in  this 
my  time  of  prosperity,  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  such  as  fell 
in  my  way;  and  now,  for  once,  my  humanity  found  its  own 
reward. 

A  miserable,  ragged,  half-starved,  and  apparently  dying  man 
crept  to  the  door  of  my  tent  (for  these  were  the  primitive  days, 
when  that  land  afforded  no  better  habitation),  and  asked  in  a 
feeble  voice  for  charity.  I  did  not  refuse  to  admit  him  into  my 
narrow  domicile,  and  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  relieve  his  suf 
fering  condition.  He  proved  to  be  the  victim  of  want  rather 
than  disease,  and  his  hunger  appeased,  the  savage  brutality  of 
his  coarse  nature  soon  manifested  itself  in  the  dogged  indiffer 
ence  with  which  he  received  a  stranger's  bounty,  and  the  gross 
ingratitude  with  which  he  abused  my  hospitality.  A  few  days 
sufficed  to  restore  him  to  his  full  strength ;  and  then,  anxious  to 
dismiss  my  visitor,  whose  conduct  had  already  excited  suspicions 
of  his  good  faith,  I  gave  him  warning  that  he  must  depart,  at 
the  same  time  placing  in  his  hands  a  sufficient  amount  of  gold 
to  insure  his  support  until  he  could  reach  the  mines,  which  were 
his  professed  destination. 

He  appeared  dissatisfied,  and  begged  permission  to  remain 
until  the  next  morning  as  the  night  was  near,  and  he  had  no 
shelter  provided.  To  this  I  made  no  objection,  little  imagining 
how  base  a  serpent  I  was  harboring.  At  midnight  I  was  awak 
ened  from  my  light  and  easily  disturbed  sleep  to  find  my  lodger 
busily  engaged  in  rifling  my  property  and  preparing  to  take  an 
unceremonious  leave  of  my  dwelling.  Nor  did  his  villany  end 
here.  Upon  my  seizing  and  charging  him  with  the  theft,  he 
snatched  a  weapon  which  lay  near  at  hand  and  attempted  the 
life  of  his  benefactor.  I  was  prepared,  however,  to  ward  off  the 
stroke,  and  by  means  of  my  superior  strength  succeeded  in  a 
few  moments  in  subduing  and  mastering  my  desperate  antag 
onist.  He  now  crouched  at  my  feet  in  such  abject  and  mean 
submission  as  might  have  been  expected  from  so  contemptible 
a  knave.  Well  might  he  tremble  with  fear;  for  the  lynch  law 


446  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

was  then  in  full  force,  and  summary  in  its  execution  of  justice 
upon  criminals  like  him.  I  should  probably  have  handed  the 
traitor  over  to  his  fate,  but  ere  I  had  time  to  do  so,  he  by  chance 
held  out  to  my  cupidity  a  bribe  so  tempting  that  I  forgot  the 
deservings  of  my  knavish  guest  in  the  eagerness  with  which  I 
bartered  his  freedom  as  the  price  of  its  possession. 

He  freely  emptied  his  pockets  at  my  bidding,  and  restored 
to  me  the  gold,  for  the  loss  of  which  I  never  should  have  re 
pined.  As  the  base  metal  rolled  at  my  feet,  however,  there 
glittered  among  the  coins  a  jewel  as  truly  mine  as  any  of  the 
rest,  but  which,  as  it  met  my  sight,  filled  me  with  greater  sur 
prise  and  rapture  than  if  it  had  been  a  new-fallen  star. 

It  was  a  ring  of  peculiar  design  and  workmanship,  which  had 
once  been  the  property  of  my  father,  and  after  his  death  had 
been  worn  by  my  mother  until  the  time  of  her  marriage  with 
Mr.  Graham,  when  it  was  transferred  to  myself.  I  had  ever 
prized  it  as  a  precious  heirloom,  and  it  was  one  of  the  few  val 
uables  which  I  took  with  me  when  I  fled  from  my  step-father's 
house.  This  ring,  with  a  watch  and  some  other  trinkets,  had 
been  left  in  the  possession  of  Lucy  when  I  parted  with  her  at 
Rio,  and  the  sight  of  it  once  more  seemed  to  me  like  a  voice 
from  the  grave.  I  eagerly  sought  to  learn  from  my  prisoner 
the  source  whence  it  had  been  obtained,  but  he  maintained  an 
obstinate  silence.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  plead,  and  at  length 
the  promise  of  instant  permission  to  depart,  "unwhipped  by 
justice,"  at  the  conclusion  of  his  tale,  wrung  from  him  a  secret 
fraught  to  me  with  vital  interest.  What  I  learned  from  him, 
in  disjointed  and  often  incoherent  phrases,  I  will  relate  to  you 
in  few  words. 

This  man  was  Stephen  Grant,  the  son  of  my  old  friend  Ben. 
He  had  heard  from  his  father's  lips  the  story  of  your  mother's 
misfortunes;  and  the  circumstance  of  a  violent  quarrel,  which 
arose  between  Ben  and  his  vixen  wife  at  the  young  stranger's 
introduction  to  their  household,  impressed  the  tale  upon  his 
recollection.  From  his  account,  it  appeared  that  my  long-con 
tinued  absence  from  Lucy,  during  the  time  of  my  illness,  was 
construed  by  her  honest  but  distrustful  counsellor  and  friend 
into  voluntary  and  cruel  desertion.  The  poor  girl,  to  whom 
my  early  life  was  all  a  mystery  which  she  had  never  shared,  and 
to  whom  much  of  my  character  and  conduct  was  consequently 
inexplicable,  began  soon  to  feel  convinced  of  the  correctness  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  447 

the  old  sailor's  suspicions  and  fears.  She  had  already  applied 
to  my  employer  for  information  concerning  me;  but  he,  who 
had  heard  of  the  pestilence  to  which  I  was  exposed,  and  fully 
believed  me  to  be  among  the  dead,  forbore  to  distress  her  by  a 
communication  of  his  belief,  and  replied  to  her  questionings 
with  an  obscurity  which  served  to  give  new  force  to  her  hitherto 
vague  and  uncertain  surmises.  She  positively  refused,  however, 
to  leave  our  home;  and  clinging  to  the  hope  of  my  final  return 
thither,  remained  where  I  had  left  her  until  the  terrible  fever 
began  its  ravages.  Her  small  stock  of  money  was  by  this  time 
consumed ;  her  strength  both  of  mind  and  body  gave  way ;  and 
Ben,  becoming  every  day  more  confident  that  the  simple-hearted 
Lucy  had  been  betrayed  and  forsaken,  persuaded  her  at  last  to 
sell  her  furniture,  and  with  the  sum  thus  raised  flee  the  infected 
country  before  it  should  be  too  late.  She  sailed  for  Boston  in 
the  same  vessel  in  which  Ben  shipped  before  the  mast ;  and  on 
reaching  that  port  her  humble  protector  took  her  immediately 
to  the  only  home  he  had  to  offer. 

There  your  mother's  sad  fate  found  a  mournful  termination, 
and  you,  her  infant  child,  were  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  cruel 
woman,  who,  but  for  her  consciousness  of  guilt  and  her  fear  of 
its  betrayal,  would  doubtless  have  thrust  you  at  once  from  the 
miserable  shelter  her  dwelling  afforded.  This  guilt  consisted 
in  a  foul  robbery  committed  by  Nan  and  her  already  infamous 
son  upon  your  innocent  and  hapless  mother,  now  rendered, 
through  her  feebleness,  an  easy  prey  to  their  rapacity.  The 
fruits  of  this  vile  theft,  however,  were  never  participated  in 
by  Nan,  whose  promising  son  so  far  exceeded  her  in  duplicity 
and  craft  that,  having  obtained  possession  of  the  jewels  for  the 
alleged  purpose  of  bartering  them  away,  he  reserved  such  as  he 
thought  proper,  and  appropriated  to  his  own  use  the  proceeds 
of  the  remainder. 

The  antique  ring  which  I  now  hold  in  my  possession,  the 
priceless  relic  of  a  mournful  tragedy,  would  have  shared  the 
fate  of  the  rest  but  for  its  apparent  worthlessness.  To  the 
luckless  Stephen,  however,  it  proved  at  last  a  temporary  salva 
tion  from  the  felon's  doom  which  must  finally  await  that  har 
dened  sinner ;  and  to  me  —  ah !  to  me  —  it  remains  to  be  proved 
whether  the  knowledge  of  the  secrets  to  which  it  has  been  the 
key  will  bless  my  future  life,  or  darken  it  with  a  heavier  curse ! 
Notwithstanding  the  information  thus  gained,  and  the  exciting 


448  THE  LAMPLIGHTEE 

idea  to  which  it  gave  rise,  that  my  child  might  be  still  living 
and  finally  restored  to  me,  I  could  not  yet  feel  any  security  that 
these  daring  hopes  were  not  destined  to  he  crushed  in  their  in 
fancy,  and  that  my  newly  found  treasure  might  not  again  elude 
my  eager  search.  To  my  inquiries  concerning  you,  Gertrude, 
Stephen,  who  had  no  longer  any  motives  for  concealing  the 
truth,  declared  his  inability  to  acquaint  me  with  any  particulars 
of  a  later  period  than  the  time  of  your  residence  with  Trueman 
Flint.  He  knew  that  the  lamplighter  had  taken  you  to  his 
home,  and  was  accidentally  made  aware,  a  few  months  later,  of 
your  continuance  in  that  place  of  refuge,  from  the  old  man's 
being  (to  use  my  informant's  expression)  such  a  confounded 
fool  as  to  call  upon  his  mother  and  voluntarily  make  compensa 
tion  for  injury  done  to  her  windows  in  your  outburst  of  child 
ish  revenge. 

Further  than  this  I  could  learn  nothing;  but  it  was  enough 
to  inspire  all  my  energies,  and  fill  me  with  one  desire  only,  — 
the  recovery  of  my  child.  I  hastened  to  Boston,  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  tracing  your  benefactor,  and  though  he  had  been  long 
since  dead,  found  many  a  truthful  witness  to  his  well-known 
virtues.  Nor,  when  1  asked  for  his  adopted  child,  did  I  find 
her  forgotten  in  the  quarter  of  the  city  where  she  had  passed 
her  childhood.  More  than  one  grateful  voice  was  ready  to  re 
spond  to  my  questioning,  and  to  proclaim  the  cause  they  had 
to  remember  the  girl  who,  having  experienced  the  trials  of  pov 
erty,  made  it  both  the  duty  and  the  pleasure  of  her  prosperity 
to  administer  to  the  wants  of  a  neighborhood  whose  sufferings 
she  had  aforetime  both  witnessed  and  shared. 

But,  alas !  to  complete  the  sum  of  sad  vicissitudes  with  which 
my  unhappy  destiny  was  already  crowded,  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  was  assured  of  my  daughter's  safety,  and  my  ears  were 
drinking  in  the  sweet  praises  that  accompanied  the  mention  of 
her  name,  there  fell  upon  me  like  a  thunderbolt  the  startling 
words,  "  She  is  now  the  adopted  child  of  sweet  Emily  Graham, 
the  blind  girl." 

0  strange  coincidence!  0  righteous  retribution!  which,  at 
the  very  moment  when  I  was  picturing  to  myself  the  consumma 
tion  of  my  cherished  hopes,  crushed  me  once  more  beneath  the 
iron  hand  of  a  destiny  that  would  not  be  cheated  of  its  victim ! 

My  child,  my  only  child,  bound  by  the  gratitude  and  love 
of  years  to  one  in  whose  face  I  scarcely  dared  to  look,  lest  my 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  449 

soul  should  be  withered  by  the  expression  of  condemnation 
which  the  consciousness  of  my  presence  would  inspire ! 

The  seas  and  lands,  which  had  hitherto  divided  us,  seemed 
not  to  my  tortured  fancy  so  insurmountable  a  barrier  between 
myself  and  my  long-lost  daughter  as  the  dreadful  reflection  that 
the  only  earthly  being  whose  love  I  had  hoped  in  time  to  win 
had  been  reared  from  her  infancy  in  a  household  where  my  very 
name  was  a  thing  abhorred. 

Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  harrowing  thought  that  all  my 
prayers,  entreaties,  and  explanations  could  never  undo  her  early 
impressions,  and  that  all  my  labors  and  all  my  love  could  never 
call  forth  other  than  a  cold  and  formal  recognition  of  my  claims, 
or,  worse  still,  a  feigned  and  hypocritical  pretence  of  filial  affec 
tion,  I  half  resolved  to  leave  my  child  in  ignorance  of  her  birth, 
and  never  seek  to  look  upon  her  face,  rather  than  subject  her 
to  the  terrible  necessity  of  choosing  between  the  friend  whom 
she  loved  and  the  father  from  whose  crimes  she  had  learned  to 
shrink  with  horror  and  dread. 

After  wrestling  and  struggling  long  with  contending  and  war 
ring  emotions,  I  resolved  to  make  one  endeavor  to  see  and  re 
cognize  you,  Gertrude,  and  at  the  same  time  guard  myself  from 
discovery.  I  trusted  (and,  as  it  proved,  not  without  reason)  to 
the  immense  change  which  time  had  wrought  in  my  appearance, 
to  conceal  me  effectually  from  all  eyes  but  those  which  had 
known  me  intimately;  and  therefore  approached  Mr.  Graham's 
house  without  the  slightest  fear  of  betrayal.  I  found  it  empty, 
and  apparently  deserted. 

I  now  directed  my  steps  to  the  well-remembered  counting- 
room,  and  here  learned  from  a  clerk  (who  was,  as  it  proved, 
but  ill  informed  concerning  the  movements  of  his  master's 
family)  that  the  whole  household,  including  yourself,  had  been 
passing  the  winter  in  Paris,  and  were  at  present  at  a  German 
watering-place.  Without  hesitation  or  further  inquiry,  I  took 
the  steamer  to  Liverpool,  and  from  thence  hastened  to  Baden- 
Baden,  —  a  trifling  excursion  in  the  eyes  of  a  traveller  of  my 
experience. 

Without  risking  myself  in  the  presence  of  my  step-father, 
I  took  an  early  opportunity  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  Mrs. 
Graham,  and  thanks  to  her  unreserved  conversation,  made  my 
self  master  of  the  fact  that  Emily  and  yourself  were  left  in  Bos* 
ton,  and  were  at  that  time  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Jeremy. 


450  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

It  was  on  my  return  voyage,  which  was  immediately  under 
taken,  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Gryseworth  and  hia 
daughter,  —  an  acquaintance  which  accidentally  proved  of  great 
value  in  facilitating  my  intercourse  with  yourself. 

Once  more  arrived  in  Boston,  Dr.  Jeremy's  house  also  wore 
a  desolate  appearance,  and  looked  as  if  closed  for  the  season. 
There  was  a  man,  however,  making  some  repairs  about  the  door 
steps,  who  informed  me  that  the  family  were  absent  from  town. 
He  was  not  himself  aware  of  the  direction  they  had  taken;  but 
the  servants  were  at  home,  and  could  no  doubt  acquaint  me 
with  their  route.  Upon  this,  I  boldly  rung  the  doorbell.  It 
was  answered  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  woman  who,  nearly  twenty 
years  before,  had  cruelly  and  unpityingly  sounded  in  my  ears 
the  death  knell  of  all  my  hopes  in  life.  I  saw  at  once  that  my 
incognito  was  secure,  as  she  met  my  keen  and  piercing  glance 
without  quailing,  shrinking,  or  taking  flight,  as  I  fully  expected 
she  would  do  at  sight  of  the  ghost  of  my  former  self. 

She  replied  to  my  queries  as  coolly  and  collectedly  as  she 
had  probably  done  during  the  day  to  some  dozen  of  the  doctor's 
disappointed  patients,  —  telling  me  that  he  had  left  that  very 
morning  for  New  York,  and  would  not  be  back  for  two  or  three 
weeks. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  favorable  to  my  wishes  than 
the  chance  thus  afforded  of  overtaking  your  party,  and  in  the 
character  of  a  travelling  companion  introducing  myself  grad 
ually  to  your  notice. 

You  know  how  this  purpose  was  effected;  how,  now  in  the 
rear  and  now  in  advance,  I  nevertheless  maintained  a  constant 
proximity  to  your  footsteps.  To  add  one  particle  to  the  com 
fort  of  yourself  and  Emily,  —  to  learn  your  plans,  forestall  your 
wishes,  secure  to  your  use  the  best  of  rooms,  and  bribe  to  your 
service  the  most  devoted  of  attendants,  —  I  spared  myself  nei 
ther  pains,  fatigue,  trouble,  nor  expense. 

For  much  of  the  freedom  with  which  I  approached  you,  and 
made  myself  an  occasional  member  of  your  circle,  I  was  in 
debted  to  Emily's  blindness;  for  I  could  not  doubt  that  other 
wise  time  and  its  changes  would  fail  to  conceal  from  her  my 
identity,  and  I  should  meet  with  a  premature  recognition.  Nor, 
until  the  final  act  of  the  drama,  when  death  stared  us  all  in  the 
face,  and  concealment  became  impossible,  did  I  once  trust  my 
voice  to  her  hearing. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  451 

How  closely,  during  those  few  weeks,  I  watched  and  weighed 
your  every  word  and  action,  seeking  even  to  read  your  thoughts 
in  your  face,  none  can  tell  whose  acuteness  is  not  sharpened 
and  vivified  by  motives  so  all-engrossing  as  mine;  and  who  can 
measure  the  anguish  of  the  fond  father,  who  day  by  day  learned 
to  worship  his  child  with  a  more  absorbing  idolatry,  and  yet 
dared  not  clasp  her  to  his  heart ! 

Especially  when  I  saw  you  the  victim  of  grief  and  trouble 
did  I  long  to  assert  a  claim  to  your  confidence ;  and  more  than 
once  my  self-control  would  have  given  way  but  for  the  dread 
inspired  by  the  gentle  Emily  —  gentle  to  all  but  me.  I  could 
not  brook  the  thought  that  with  my  confession  I  should  cease 
to  be  the  trusted  friend,  and  become  the  abhorred  parent.  I 
preferred  to  maintain  my  distant  and  unacknowledged  guardian 
ship  of  my  child,  rather  than  that  she  should  behold  in  me  the 
dreaded  tyrant  who  might  tear  her  from  the  home  from  which 
he  had  himself  been  driven,  and  the  hearts  which,  though  warm 
with  love  for  her,  were  ice  and  stone  to  him. 

And  so  I  kept  silent;  and  sometimes  present  to  your  sight, 
but  still  oftener  hid  from  view,  I  hovered  around  your  path, 
until  that  dreadful  day,  which  you  will  long  remember,  when, 
everything  forgotten  but  the  safety  of  yourself  and  Emily,  my 
heart  spoke  out,  and  betrayed  my  secret. 

And  now  you  know  all,  —  my  follies,  misfortunes,  sufferings, 
and  sins ! 

Can  you  love  me,  Gertrude?  It  is  all  I  ask.  I  seek  not 
to  steal  you  from  your  present  home  —  to  rob  poor  Emily  of  a 
child  whom  she  values  perhaps  as  much  as  I.  The  only  balm 
my  wounded  spirit  seeks  is  the  simple,  guileless  confession  that 
you  will  at  least  try  to  love  your  father. 

I  have  no  hope  in  this  world,  and  none,  alas!  beyond,  but 
in  yourself.  Could  you  feel  my  heart  now  beating  against  its 
prison  bars,  you  would  realize,  as  I  do,  that  unless  soothed  it 
will  burst  ere  long.  Will  you  soothe  it  by  your  pity,  my  sweet, 
my  darling  child?  Will  you  bless  it  by  your  love?  If  so, 
come,  clasp  your  arms  around  me,  and  whisper  to  me  words  of 
peace.  Within  sight  of  your  window,  in  the  old  summer-house 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  with  straining  ear,  I  wait  listening 
for  your  footsteps. 


452  THE  LAMPLIGHTEB 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

Around  her  path  a  vision's  glow  is  cast, 
Back,  back  her  lost  one  comes  in  hues  of  morn  I 
For  her  the  gulf  is  filled,  the  dark  night  fled, 
Whose  mystery  parts  the  living  and  the  dead. 

HEMAKS. 

As  Gertrude's  eyes,  after  greedily  devouring  the  manuscript, 
fell  upon  its  closing  words,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  the  next 
instant  her  little  room  (the  floor  strewed  with  the  scattered 
sheets  which  had  dropped  from  her  lap  as  she  rose)  is  left  va 
cant.  She  has  flown  down  the  staircase,  escaped  through  the 
hall  door;  and  bounding  over  a  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
now  wet  with  the  evening  dew,  she  approaches  the  summer- 
house  from  the  opposite  entrance  to  that  at  which  Mr.  Amory, 
with  folded  arms  and  a  fixed  countenance,  is  watching  for  her 
coming. 

So  noiseless  is  her  light  step,  that  before  he  is  conscious  of 
her  presence  she  has  thrown  herself  upon  his  bosom,  and  her 
whole  frame  trembling  with  the  vehemence  of  long-suppressed 
and  now  uncontrolled  agitation,  she  bursts  into  a  torrent  of  pas 
sionate  tears,  interrupted  only  by  frequent  sobs,  so  deep  and  so 
exhausting  that  her  father,  with  his  arms  folded  tightly  around 
her,  and  clasping  her  so  closely  to  his  heart  that  she  feels  its 
irregular  beating,  endeavors  to  still  the  tempest  of  her  grief, 
whispering  softly,  as  to  an  infant,  "Hush!  hush,  my  child! 
you  frighten  me !  " 

And  gradually  soothed  by  his  gentle  caresses,  her  excitement 
subsides,  and  she  is  able  to  lift  her  face  to  his,  and  smile  upon 
him  through  her  tears.  They  stand  thus  for  many  minutes, 
in  a  silence  that  speaks  far  more  than  words.  Wrapped  in  the 
folds  of  his  heavy  cloak  to  preserve  her  from  the  evening  air, 
and  still  encircled  in  his  strong  embrace,  Gertrude  feels  that 
their  union  of  spirit  is  not  less  complete;  while  the  long-ban 
ished  man,  who  for  years  has  never  felt  the  sweet  influence  of 
a  kindly  smile,  glows  with  a  melting  tenderness  which  harden 
ing  solitude  has  not  had  the  power  to  subdue. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  453 

Again  and  again  the  moon  retires  behind  a  cloud,  and  peeps 
out  to  find  them  still  in  the  attitude  in  which  she  saw  them 
last.  At  length,  as  she  gains  a  broad  and  open  expanse,  and 
looks  clearly  down,  Mr.  Amory,  lifting  his  daughter's  face,  and 
gazing  into  her  glistening  eyes,  while  he  gently  strokes  the  dis 
ordered  hair  from  her  forehead,  asks,  in  an  accent  of  touching 
appeal,  "You  will  love  me  then?" 

"0,  I  do !  I  do ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  sealing  his  lips  with 
kisses. 

His  hitherto  unmoved  countenance  relaxes  at  this  fervent  as 
surance.  He  bows  his  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  strong 
man  weeps. 

Not  long,  however.  Her  self-possession  all  restored  at  see 
ing  him  thus  overcome,  Gertrude  places  her  hand  in  his,  and 
startles  him  from  his  position  by  the  firm  and  decided  tone  with 
which  she  whispers,  "Come!" 

"  Whither  1 "  exclaims  he,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

"To  Emily." 

With  a  half  shudder,  and  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head,  he 
retreats,  instead  of  advancing  in  the  direction  in  which  she 
would  lead  him.  "I  cannot." 

"But  she  waits  for  you.  She,  too,  weeps  and  longs  and 
prays  for  your  coming." 

"Emily!  —  you  know  not  what  you  are  saying,  my  child!" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  my  father,  it  is  you  who  are  deceived. 
Emily  does  not  hate  you;  she  never  did.  She  believed  you 
dead  long  ago;  but  your  voice,  though  heard  but  once,  has  half 
robbed  her  of  her  reason,  so  wholly,  so  entirely  does  she  love 
you  still.  Come,  and  she  will  tell  you  better  than  I  can  what 
a  wretched  mistake  has  made  martyrs  of  you  both." 

Emily,  who  had  heard  the  voice  of  Willie  Sullivan,  as  he 
bade  Gertrude  farewell  on  the  doorstep,  and  rightly  conjectured 
that  it  was  he,  forbore  making  any  inquiries  for  the  absent  girl 
at  the  tea  table,  and  thinking  it  probable  that  she  preferred  to 
remain  undisturbed,  retired  to  the  sitting-room  at  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  meal,  where  (as  Mr.  Graham  sought  the  library)  she 
remained  alone  for  more  than  an  hour. 

It  was  a  delightful,  social-looking  room.  The  fire  still 
burned  brightly,  sending  forth  a  ruddy  glow,  and  (as  the  even 
ing  was  unusually  chilly  for  the  season)  rendering  the  tempera 
ture  of  the  great  old-fashioned  parlor  highly  agreeable.  There 


454  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

were  candles  under  the  mirror,  but  they  did  not  give  light 
enough  to  destroy  the  pleasant  effect  of  the  shadows  which  the 
firelight  made  upon  the  wall  and  about  the  couch  where  Emily 
was  reclining. 

The  invalid  girl,  if  we  may  call  her  such  (for,  in  spite  of  ill 
health,  she  still  retained  much  of  the  freshness  and  all  the  love 
liness  of  her  girlhood),  had,  by  chance,  chosen  such  a  position, 
opposite  to  the  cheerful  blaze,  that  its  flickering  light  played 
about  her  face,  and  brought  to  view  the  rich  and  unwonted 
bloom  which  inward  excitement  had  called  up  in  her  usually 
pale  countenance.  The  exquisite  and  refined  taste  which  al 
ways  made  Emily's  dress  an  index  to  the  soft  purity  of  her 
character  was  never  more  strikingly  developed  than  when  she 
wore,  as  on  the  present  occasion,  a  flowing  robe  of  white  cash 
mere,  fastened  at  the  waist  with  a  silken  girdle,  and  with  full 
drapery  sleeves,  whose  lining  and  border  of  snowy  silk  could 
only  have  been  rivalled  by  the  delicate  hand  and  wrist  which  had 
escaped  from  beneath  their  folds,  and  somewhat  nervously  played 
with  the  heavy  crimson  fringe  of  a  shawl,  worn  in  the  chilly 
dining-room,  and  now  thrown  carelessly  over  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 

Supporting  herself  upon  her  elbow,  she  sat  with  her  head 
bent  forward,  and  as  she  watched  the  images  reflected  in  the 
glass  of  memory,  one  who  knew  her  not,  and  was  unaware  of  her 
want  of  sight,  might  have  believed  that,  looking  forth  from  her 
long,  drooping  eyelashes,  she  was  tracing  imaginary  forms  among 
the  shining  embers,  so  intently  was  her  face  bent  in  that  direction. 

Occasionally,  as  the  summer  wind  sighed  among  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  causing  them  to  beat  lightly  against  the  window- 
pane,  she  would  lift  her  head  from  the  hand  on  which  it  rested, 
and  gracefully  arching  her  slender  throat,  incline  in  a  listening 
attitude  and  then,  as  the  trifling  nature  of  the  sound  betrayed 
itself,  she  would  sink,  with  a  low  sigh,  into  her  former  some 
what  listless  position.  Once  Mrs.  Prime  opened  the  door, 
looked  around  the  room  in  search  of  the  housekeeper,  and  not 
finding  her,  retreated  across  the  passage,  saying  to  herself,  as 
she  did  so,  "  Law !  dear  sakes  alive !  I  wish  she  only  had  eyes 
now,  to  see  how  like  a  picter  she  looks ! " 

At  length  a  low,  quick  bark  from  the  house  dog  once  more 
attracted  her  attention,  and  in  a  moment  steps  were  heard  cross 
ing  the  piazza. 

Before  they  had  gained  the  door,  Emily  was  standing  upright 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  455 

straining  her  ear  to  catch  the  sound  of  every  footfall ;  and  when 
Gertrude  and  Mr.  Amory  entered,  she  looked  more  like  a  statue 
than  a  living  figure,  as,  with  clasped  hands,  parted  lips,  and 
one  foot  slightly  advanced,  she  silently  awaited  their  approach. 

One  glance  at  Emily's  face,  another  at  that  of  her  agitated 
father,  and  Gertrude  was  gone.  She  saw  the  completeness  of 
their  mutual  recognition,  .and  with  instinctive  delicacy  forbore 
to  mar  by  her  presence  the  sacredness  of  so  holy  an  interview. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her  retreating  figure,  Emily  parted 
her  clasped  hands,  stretched  them  forth  into  the  dim  vacancy, 
and  murmured  "Philip!" 

He  seized  them  between  both  of  his,  and  with  one  step  for 
ward,  fell  upon  his  knees.  As  he  did  so,  the  half-fainting  girl 
dropped  upon  the  seat  behind  her.  Mr.  Amory  bowed  his 
head  upon  the  hands  which,  still  held  tightly  between  his  own, 
now  rested  on  her  lap;  and  hiding  his  face  upon  her  slender 
fingers,  tremblingly  uttered  her  name. 

"  The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead !  "  exclaimed  Emily.  "  My 
God,  I  thank  thee ! "  and  extricating  her  hands  from  his  con 
vulsive  grasp,  she  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  rested  her 
head  upon  his  bosom,  and  whispered,  in  a  voice  half  choked 
with  emotion,  "Philip!  —  dear,  dear  Philip!  am  I  dreaming, 
or  have  you  come  back  again  ? " 

The  conventional  rules,  the  enforced  restrictions,  which  often 
set  limits  to  the  outbursts  of  natural  feeling,  had  no  existence 
for  one  so  wholly  the  child  of  nature  as  Emily.  She  and  Philip 
had  loved  each  other  in  their  childhood;  before  that  childhood 
was  fully  past  they  had  parted ;  and  as  children  they  met  again. 
During  the  lapse  of  many  years,  in  which,  shut  out  from  the 
world,  she  had  lived  among  the  cherished  memories  of  the  past, 
she  had  been  safe  from  worldly  contagion,  and  had  retained  all 
the  guileless  simplicity  of  girlhood,  —  all  the  freshness  of  her 
springtime;  and  Philip,  who  had  never  willingly  bound  him 
self  by  any  ties  save  those  imposed  upon  him  by  circumstance 
and  necessity,  felt  his  boyhood  come  rushing  upon  him  once 
more  as,  with  Emily's  soft  hand  resting  on  his  head,  she  blessed 
Heaven  for  his  safe  return.  She  could  not  see  how  time  had 
silvered  his  hair,  and  sobered  and  shaded  the  face  that  she 
loved.  Whether  he  came  in  the  shape  of  the  fiery-eyed  youth 
that  she  saw  him  last,  the  middle-aged  man,  with  hoary  hair, 
whose  years  the  curious  found  it  hard  to  determine,  or  the  glo- 


456  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

rifled  angel  which  she  had  pictured  to  herself  in  every  dream  of 
heaven,  it  was  all  alike  to  one  whose  world  was  a  world  of 
spirits. 

And  to  him,  as  he  beheld  the  face  he  had  half  dreaded  to 
encounter  beaming  with  the  holy  light  of  sympathy  and  love, 
the  blind  girl's  countenance  seemed  encircled  with  a  halo  not 
of  earth.  And,  therefore,  this  union  had  in  it  less  of  earth 
than  heaven.  Had  they  wakened  on  the  other  side  the  grave, 
and  soul  met  soul  in  that  happy  land  where  the  long  parted 
meet,  their  rapture  could  scarcely  have  been  more  pure,  their 
happiness  more  unalloyed. 

Not  until,  seated  beside  each  other,  with  their  hands  still 
fondly  clasped,  Philip  had  heard  from  Emily's  lips  the  history 
of  her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  prayers,  and  her  despair,  and  she, 
while  listening  to  the  sad  incidents  of  his  life,  had  dropped 
upon  the  hand  she  held  many  a  kiss  and  tear  of  sympathy,  did 
either  fully  realize  the  mercy,  so  long  delayed,  so  fully  accorded 
now,  which  promised  even  on  earth  to  crown  their  days. 

Emily  wept  at  the  tale  of  Lucy's  trials  and  her  early  death; 
and  when  she  learned  that  it  was  hers  and  Philip's  child  whom 
she  had  taken  to  her  heart,  and  fostered  with  the  truest  affec 
tion,  she  sent  up  a  silent  prayer  of  gratitude  that  it  had  been 
allotted  to  her  apparently  bereaved  and  darkened  destiny  to 
fulfil  so  blest  a  mission. 

"If  I  could  love  her  more,  dear  Philip,"  exclaimed  she  while 
the  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  "I  would  do  so,  for  your 
sake,  and  that  of  her  sweet,  innocent,  suffering  mother." 

"And  you  forgive  me,  then,  Emily?"  said  Philip,  as,  both 
having  finished  their  sad  recitals  of  the  past,  they  gave  them 
selves  up  to  the  sweet  reflection  of  their  present  joy. 

"Forgive  ?  —  0  Philip!  what  have  I  to  forgive ?  " 

"The  deed  that  locked  you  in  prison  darkness,"  he  mourn 
fully  replied. 

"  Philip ! "  exclaimed  Emily  in  a  reproachful  tone,  "  could 
you  for  one  moment  believe  that  I  attributed  that  to  you  ?  — 
that  I  blamed  you,  for  an  instant,  even  in  my  secret  thought  1 " 

"Not  willingly,  I  am  sure,  dear  Emily.  But,  0,  you  have 
forgotten  what  /  can  never  forget  —  that  in  your  time  of  an 
guish,  not  only  the  obtruding  thought,  but  the  lip  that  gave 
utterance  to  it,  proclaimed  how  your  soul  refused  to  pity  and 
forgive  the  cruel  hand  that  wrought  you  so  much  woe ! " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  457 

"  You  cruel,  Philip !  Never,  even  in  my  wild  frenzy,  did  I 
so  abuse  and  wrong  you.  If  my  unfilial  heart  sinfully  railed 
against  the  cruel  injustice  of  my  father,  it  was  never  guilty  of 
such  treachery  towards  you." 

"  That  fiendish  woman  lied,  then,  when  she  told  me  that  you 
shuddered  at  my  very  name  1 " 

"If  I  shuddered,  Philip,  it  was  because  my  whole  nature  re 
coiled  at  the  thought  of  the  wrong  that  you  had  sustained;  and 
0,  believe  me,  if  she  gave  you  any  other  assurance  than  of  my 
continued  love,  it  was  because  she  labored  under  a  sad  and  un 
happy  error." 

"Good  heavens! "  ejaculated  Philip.  "How  wickedly  have 
I  been  deceived !  " 

"Not  wickedly,"  replied  Emily.  "Mrs.  Ellis,  with  all  her 
stern  formality,  was,  in  that  instance,  the  victim  of  circum 
stances.  She  was  a  stranger  among  us,  and  believed  you  other 
than  you  were ;  but  had  you  seen  her  a  few  weeks  later,  sob 
bing  over  her  share  in  the  unhappy  transaction  which  drove  you 
to  desperation,  and  as  we  then  supposed  to  death,  you  would 
have  felt,  as  I  did,  that  we  had  greatly  misjudged  her  in  re 
turn,  and  that  she  carried  a  heart  of  flesh  beneath  a  stony  dis 
guise.  The  bitterness  of  her  grief  astonished  me  at  the  time; 
for  I  never  until  now  had  reason  to  suspect  that  it  was  mingled 
with  remorse  at  the  recollection  of  her  own  harshness.  Let  us 
forget,  however,  the  sad  events  of  the  past,  and  trust  that  the 
loving  hand  which  has  thus  far  shaped  our  course  has  but  af 
flicted  us  in  mercy." 

"In  mercy!"  exclaimed  Philip.  "What  mercy  does  my 
past  experience  give  evidence  of,  or  your  life  of  everlasting  dark 
ness  1  Can  you  believe  it  a  loving  hand  which  made  me  the 
ill-fated  instrument,  and  you  the  lifelong  sufferer,  from  one  of 
the  dreariest  misfortunes  that  can  afflict  humanity  ?  " 

"Speak  not  of  my  blindness  as  a  misfortune,"  answered  Em 
ily  ;  "  I  have  long  ceased  to  think  it  such.  It  is  only  through 
the  darkness  of  the  night  that  we  discern  the  lights  of  heaven, 
and  only  when  shut  out  from  earth  that  we  enter  the  gates  of 
Paradise.  With  eyes  to  see  the  wonderful  working  of  nature 
and  nature's  God,  I  nevertheless  closed  them  to  the  evidences 
of  almighty  love  that  were  around  me  on  every  side.  While 
enjoying  the  beautiful  and  glorious  gifts  that  were  showered  on 
my  pathway,  I  forgot  to  thank  and  praise  the  Giver;  but  with 


458  THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 

an  ungrateful  heart  walked  sinfully  and  selfishly  on,  little  dream 
ing  of  the  beguiling  and  deceitful  snares  which  entangle  the 
footsteps  of  youth. 

"And  therefore  did  He,  who  is  ever  over  us  for  good,  arrest 
with  fatherly  hand  the  child  who  was  wandering  from  the  only 
road  that  leads  to  peace ;  and  though  the  discipline  of  his  chas 
tening  rod  was  sudden  and  severe,  mercy  still  tempered  justice. 
From  the  tomb  of  my  buried  joys  sprang  hopes  that  will  bloom 
in  immortality.  From  the  clouds  and  the  darkness  broke  forth 
a  glorious  light.  What  was  hidden  from  my  outer  sight  be 
came  manifest  to  my  awakened  soul,  and  even  on  earth  my 
troubled  spirit  gained  its  eternal  rest.  Then  grieve  not,  dear 
Philip,  over  the  fate  that,  in  reality,  is  far  from  sad ;  but  re- 
joice  with  me  in  the  thought  of  that  blessed  and  not  far  distant 
awakening,  when,  with  restored  and  beatified  vision,  I  shall 
stand  before  God's  throne,  in  full  view  of  that  glorious  Pre 
sence,  from  which,  but  for  the  guiding  light  which  has  burst 
upon  my  spirit  through  the  veil  of  earthly  darkness,  I  might 
have  been  eternally  shut  out." 

As  Emily  finished  speaking,  and  Philip,  gazing  with  awe 
upon  the  rapt  expression  of  her  soul-illumined  face,  beheld  the 
triumph  of  an  immortal  mind,  and  pondered  on  the  might,  the 
majesty,  and  power  of  the  influence  wrought  by  simple  piety, 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  abruptly,  and  Mr.  Graham  entered. 

The  sound  of  the  well-known  footstep  disturbed  the  soar 
ing  thoughts  of  both,  and  the  flush  of  excitement  which  had 
mounted  into  Emily's  cheeks  subsided  into  more  than  her 
wonted  paleness,  as  Philip,  rising  slowly  and  deliberately  from 
his  seat  at  her  side,  stood  face  to  face  with  her  father. 

Mr.  Graham  approached  with  the  puzzled  and  scrutinizing 
air  of  one  who  finds  himself  called  upon  in  the  character  of  a 
host  to  greet  a  visitor  who,  though  an  apparent  stranger,  may 
possibly  have  claims  to  recognition,  and  glanced  at  his  daughter 
as  if  hoping  she  would  relieve  the  awkwardness  by  an  introduc 
tion.  But  the  agitated  Emily  maintained  perfect  silence,  and 
every  feature  of  Philip's  countenance  remained  immovable  as 
Mr.  Graham  slowly  came  forward. 

He  had  advanced  within  one  step  of  the  spot  where  Philip 
stood  waiting  to  receive  him,  when,  struck  by  the  stern  look 
and  attitude  of  the  latter,  he  stopped  short,  gazed  one  moment 
into  the  eagle  eyes  of  his  step-son,  then  staggered,  grasped  at 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  459 

the  mantelpiece,  and  would  have  fallen;  but  Philip,  starting 
forward,  helped  him  to  his  arm-chair,  which  stood  opposite  to 
the  sofa. 

And  yet  no  word  was  spoken.  At  length  Mr.  Graham,  who, 
having  fallen  into  the  seat,  sat  still  gazing  into  the  face  of  Mr. 
Amory,  ejaculated,  in  a  tone  of  wondering  excitement,  "Philip 
Amory !  0,  my  God !  " 

"Yes,  father,"  exclaimed  Emily,  suddenly  rising  and  grasp 
ing  her  father's  arm.  "It  is  Philip;  he  whom  we  have  so 
long  believed  among  the  dead  restored  to  us  in  health  and 
safety ! " 

Mr.  Graham  rose  from  his  chair,  and  leaning  heavily  on  Em 
ily's  shoulder,  again  approached  Mr.  Amory,  who,  with  folded 
arms,  stood  fixed  as  marble.  His  step  tottered  with  a  feeble 
ness  never  before  observable  in  the  sturdy  frame  of  the  old  man, 
and  the  hand  which  he  extended  to  Philip  was  marked  by  an 
unusual  tremulousness. 

But  Philip  did  not  offer  to  receive  the  proffered  hand,  or 
reply  by  word  to  the  rejected  salutation. 

Mr.  Graham  turned  towards  Emily,  and  forgetting  that  this 
neglect  was  shut  from  her  sight,  exclaimed  half  bitterly,  half 
sadly,  "I  cannot  blame  him!  God  knows  I  wronged  the 
boy!" 

"  Wronged  him ! "  cried  Philip  in  a  voice  so  deep  as  to  be 
almost  fearful.  "Yes,  wronged  him,  indeed!  Blighted  his 
life,  crushed  his  youth,  half  broke  his  heart,  and  wholly  blasted 
his  reputation ! " 

"No,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  quailed  beneath  these 
accusations,  until  he  reached  the  final  one.  "Not  that,  Philip! 
not  that !  I  never  harmed  you  there.  I  discovered  my  error 
before  I  had  doomed  you  to  infamy  in  the  eyes  of  one  of  your 
fellow-men." 

"  You  acknowledge,  then,  the  error  ?  " 

"I  do,  I  do!  I  imputed  to  you  the  deed  which  proved  to 
have  been  accomplished  through  the  agency  of  my  most  confi 
dential  clerk.  I  learned  the  truth  almost  immediately ;  but  too 
late,  alas !  to  recall  you.  Then  came  the  news  of  your  death, 
and  I  felt  that  the  injury  had  been  irreparable.  But  it  was  not 
strange,  Philip;  you  must  allow  that.  Archer  had  been  in  my 
employment  more  than  twenty  years.  I  had  a  right  to  believe 
him  trustworthy." 


460  THE  LAMPLIGHTEB 

"  No !  0,  no !  "  replied  Philip.  "  It  was  nothing  strange 
that,  a  crime  committed,  you  should  have  readily  ascribed  it  to 
me.  You  thought  me  capable  only  of  evil." 

"I  was  unjust,  Philip,"  answered  Mr.  Graham,  with  an  at 
tempt  to  rally  his  dignity,  "  but  I  had  some  cause,  —  I  had  some 
cause. " 

"Perhaps  so,"  responded  Philip;  "I  am  willing  to  grant 
that." 

"  Let  us  shake  hands  upon  it,  then, "  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  and 
endeavor  to  forget  the  past." 

Philip  did  not  again  refuse  to  accede  to  this  request,  though 
there  was  but  little  warmth  or  eagerness  in  the  manner  of  his 
compliance. 

Mr.  Graham,  seeming  now  to  think  the  matter  quite  ended, 
looked  relieved,  and  as  if  he  had  shaken  off  a  burden  which  had 
been  weighing  upon  his  conscience  for  years  (for  he  had  a  con 
science,  though  not  a  very  tender  one) ;  and  subsiding  into  his 
arm-chair,  begged  to  learn  the  particulars  of  Philip's  experience 
during  the  last  twenty  years. 

The  outline  of  the  story  was  soon  told,  Mr.  Graham  listening 
to  it  with  attention,  and  inquiring  into  its  particulars  with  an 
interest  which  proved  that,  during  a  lengthened  period  of  re 
gret  and  remorse,  his  feelings  had  sensibly  softened  towards  the 
step-son  with  every  memory  of  whom  there  had  come  to  his 
heart  a  pang  of  self-reproach. 

Mr.  Amory  was  unable  to  afford  any  satisfactory  explanation 
of  the  report  of  his  own  death,  which  had  been  confidently  af 
firmed  by  Dr.  Jeremy's  correspondent  at  Rio.  Upon  a  com 
parison  of  dates,  however,  it  seemed  probable  that  the  doctor's 
agent  had  obtained  this  information  from  Philip's  employer, 
who,  for  some  weeks  previous  to  his  own  death,  had  every  rea 
son  to  believe  that  the  young  man  had  perished  of  the  infection 
prevailing  in  the  low  and  unhealthy  region  to  which  he  had 
been  dispatched. 

To  Philip  himself  it  was  an  almost  equal  matter  of  wonder 
that  his  friends  should  ever  have  obtained  knowledge  of  his 
flight  and  destination.  But  this  was  more  easily  accounted  for, 
since  the  vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked  returned  directly  to 
Boston,  and  there  were  among  her  crew  and  officers  those  who 
had  ample  means  of  replying  to  the  inquiries  which  the  benevo 
lent  doctor  had  set  on  foot  some  months  before,  and  which, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  461 

being  accompanied  by  the  offer  of  a  liberal  reward,  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  public. 

Notwithstanding  the  many  strange  and  romantic  incidents 
which  were  unfolding  themselves,  none  seemed  to  produce  so 
great  an  impression  upon  Mr.  Graham's  mind  as  the  singular 
circumstance  that  the  child  who  had  been  reared  under  his  roof, 
and  endeared  herself  to  him,  in  spite  of  some  clashing  of  inter 
ests  and  opinions,  should  prove  to  be  Philip's  daughter.  As 
he  left  the  room,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  tale,  and  again  sought 
the  solitude  of  his  library,  he  muttered  to  himself  more  than 
once,  " Singular  coincidence !  Very  singular!  Very!" 

Hardly  had  he  departed  before  another  door  was  timidly 
opened,  and  Gertrude  looked  cautiously  in. 

Her  father  went  quickly  towards  her,  and  passing  his  arm 
around  her  waist,  drew  her  towards  Emily,  and  clasped  them 
both  in  a  long  and  silent  embrace. 

"Philip,"  exclaimed  Emily,  "can  you  still  doubt  the  mercy 
and  love  which  have  spared  us  for  such  a  meeting  ? " 

"0  Emily!"  replied  he,  "I  am  deeply  grateful.  Teach  me 
how  and  where  to  bestow  my  tribute  of  praise." 

On  the  hour  of  sweet  communion  which  succeeded  we  for 
bear  to  dwell,  —  the  silent  rapture  of  Emily,  the  passionately 
expressed  joy  of  Philip,  or  the  trusting,  loving  glances  which 
Gertrude  cast  upon  both. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Mr.  Amory  rose,  and  announced 
his  intention  to  depart.  Emily,  who  had  not  thought  of  his 
leaving  the  spot  which  she  hoped  he  would  now  consider  his 
home,  entreated  him  to  remain;  and  Gertrude,  with  her  eyes, 
joined  in  the  eager  petition.  But  he  persisted  in  his  resolution 
with  a  firmness  and  seriousness  which  proved  how  vain  would 
be  the  attempt  to  shake  it. 

"Philip,"  said  Emily  at  length,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  "you  have  not  yet  forgiven  my  father." 

She  had  divined  his  thoughts.  He  shrank  under  her  re 
proachful  tones,  and  made  no  answer. 

"But  you  will,  dear  Philip,  — you  will,"  continued  she  in 
a  pleading  voice. 

He  hesitated,  then  glanced  at  her  once  more,  and  replied,  "  I 
will,  dearest  Emily,  I  will  —  in  time. " 

When  he  had  gone,  Gertrude  lingered  a  moment  at  the  door, 
to  watch  his  retreating  figure,  just  visible  in  the  light  of  the 


462  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

waning  moon;  then  returned  to  the  parlor,  drawing  a  long 
breath  and  saying,  "  0,  what  a  day  this  has  been ! "  but  checked 
herself,  at  the  sight  of  Emily,  who,  kneeling  by  the  sofa,  with 
clasped  hands,  uplifted  face,  and  with  her  white  garments  sweep 
ing  the  floor,  looked  the  very  impersonation  of  purity  and  prayer. 
Throwing  one  arm  around  her  neck,  Gertrude  knelt  on  the 
floor  beside  her,  and  together  they  sent  up  to  the  throne  of  God 
the  incense  of  thanksgiving  and  praise ! 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  463 


CHAPTER   XLIX 

Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest,  from  a  child, 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea,  — 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul,  —  speak  1  0,  yet  live  for  me  ! 

HEMANS. 

WHEN  Uncle  True  died,  Mr.  Cooper  reverently  buried  his 
old  friend  in  the  ancient  graveyard  which  adjoined  the  church 
where  he  had  long  officiated  as  sexton.  It  was  a  dilapidated 
looking  place,  whose  half-fallen  and  moss-grown  stones  pro 
claimed  its  recent  neglect  and  disuse.  But  long  before  the  adja 
cent  and  time-worn  building  gave  place  to  a  modern  and  more 
imposing  structure  the  hallowed  remains  of  Uncle  True  had 
found  a  quieter  resting-place. 

With  that  good  taste  and  good  feeling  which,  in  latter  days, 
has  dedicated  to  the  sacred  dead  some  of  the  fairest  spots  on 
earth,  a  beautiful  piece  of  undulating  woodland  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Mr.  Graham's  country  residence  had  been  consecrated 
as  a  rural  cemetery,  and  in  the  loveliest  nook  of  this  sweet  and 
venerated  spot  the  ashes  of  the  good  old  lamplighter  found  their 
final  repose. 

This  lot  of  land,  which  had  been  purchased  through  Willie's 
thoughtful  liberality,  selected  by  Gertrude,  and  by  her  made 
fragrant  and  beautiful  with  summer  rose  and  winter  ivy,  now 
enclosed  also  the  forms  of  Mr.  Cooper  and  Mrs.  Sullivan;  and 
over  these  three  graves  Gertrude  had  planted  many  a  flower, 
and  watered  it  with  her  tears.  Especially  did  she  view  it  as  a 
sacred  duty  and  privilege  to  mark  the  anniversary  of  the  death 
of  each  by  a  tribute  of  fresh  garlands;  and  with  this  pious 
purpose  in  view  she  left  Mr.  Graham's  house  one  beautiful  after 
noon,  about  a  week  after  the  events  took  place  which  are  nar 
rated  in  the  previous  chapter. 

She  carried  on  her  arm  a  basket,  which  contained  her  offer 
ing  of  flowers;  and  as  she  had  a  long  walk  before  her,  started 
at  a  rapid  pace.  Let  us  follow  her,  and  briefly  pursue  the 
train  of  thought  which  accompanied  her  on  her  way. 


464  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

She  had  left  her  father  with  Emily.  She  would  not  ask  him 
to  join  her  in  her  walk,  though  he  had  once  expressed  a  desire 
to  visit  the  grave  of  Uncle  True;  for  he  and  Emily  were  talk 
ing  together  so  contentedly,  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  dis 
turb  them;  and  for  a  few  moments  Gertrude's  reflections  were 
engrossed  by  the  thought  of  their  calm  and  tranquil  happiness. 
She  thought  of  herself,  too,  as  associated  with  them  both;  of 
the  deep  and  long-tried  love  of  Emily,  and  of  the  fond  outpour 
ings  of  affection  daily  and  hourly  lavished  upon  her  by  her 
newly  found  parent,  and  felt  that  she  could  scarcely  repay  their 
kindness  by  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 

Now  and  then,  as  she  dwelt  in  her  musings  upon  the  sweet 
tie  between  herself  and  Emily,  which  had  gained  strength  with 
every  succeeding  year,  and  the  equally  close  and  kindred  union 
between  father  and  child,  which,  though  recent  in  its  origin, 
was  scarcely  capable  of  being  more  firmly  cemented  by  time,  her 
thoughts  would,  in  spite  of  herself,  wander  to  that  earlier 
formed  and  not  less  tender  friendship,  now,  alas !  sadly  ruptured 
and  wounded,  if  not  wholly  uprooted  and  destroyed.  She  tried 
to  banish  the  remembrance  of  Willie's  faithlessness  and  deser 
tion,  deeming  it  the  part  of  an  ungrateful  spirit  to  mourn  over 
past  hopes,  regardless  of  the  blessings  that  yet  remained.  She 
tried  to  keep  in  mind  the  resolutions  lately  formed  to  forget  the 
most  painful  feature  in  her  past  life,  and  consecrate  the  remain 
der  of  her  days  to  the  happiness  of  her  father  and  Emily. 

But  it  would  not  do.  The  obtruding  and  painful  recollection 
presented  itself  continually,  notwithstanding  her  utmost  efforts 
to  repress  it,  and  at  last,  ceasing  the  struggle,  she  gave  herself 
up  for  the  time  to  a  deep  and  saddening  reverie. 

She  had  received  two  visits  from  Willie  since  the  one  already 
mentioned ;  but  the  second  meeting  had  been  in  its  character 
very  similar  to  the  first,  and  on  the  succeeding  occasion  the  con 
straint  had  increased  instead  of  diminishing.  Several  times 
Willie  had  made  an  apparent  effort  to  break  through  this  un 
natural  barrier,  and  speak  and  act  with  the  freedom  of  former 
days;  but  a  sudden  blush,  or  sign  of  confusion  and  distress,  on 
Gertrude's  part,  deterred  him  from  any  further  attempt  to  put 
to  flight  the  reserve  and  want  of  confidence  which  subsisted  in 
their  intercourse.  Again,  Gertrude,  who  had  resolved,  previous 
to  his  last  visit,  to  meet  him  with  the  frankness  and  cordiality 
which  he  might  reasonably  expect,  smiled  upon  him  affection- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  465 

ately  at  his  coming,  and  offered  her  hand  with  such  sisterly 
freedom,  that  he  was  emboldened  to  take  and  retain  it  in  his 
grasp,  and  was  evidently  on  the  point  of  unburdening  his  mind 
of  some  weighty  secret,  when  she  turned  abruptly  away,  took 
up  some  trivial  piece  of  work,  and  while  she  seemed  wholly  ab 
sorbed  in  it,  addressed  to  him  an  unimportant  question,  —  a 
course  of  conduct  which  put  to  flight  all  his  ideas,  and  discon 
certed  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  stay. 

As  Gertrude  pondered  the  awkward  and  distressing  results  of 
every  visit  he  had  made  her,  she  half  hoped  he  would  discontinue 
them  altogether,  believing  that  the  feelings  of  both  would  be  less 
wounded  by  a  total  separation  than  by  interviews  which  must 
leave  on  the  mind  of  each  a  still  greater  sense  of  estrangement. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  had  not  yet  acquainted  him  with 
the  event  so  deep  in  its  interest  to  herself,  —  the  discovery  of 
her  dearly  loved  father.  Once  she  tried  to  speak  of  it,  but 
found  herself  so  overcome,  at  the  very  idea  of  imparting  to  the 
confidant  of  her  childhood  an  experience  of  which  she  could 
scarcely  yet  think  without  emotion,  that  she  paused  in  the  at 
tempt,  fearing  that,  should  she,  on  any  topic,  give  way  to  her 
sensibilities,  she  should  lose  all  restraint  over  her  feelings,  and 
lay  open  her  whole  heart  to  Willie. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  distressed  her  more  than  all 
others.  In  his  first  vain  attempt  to  throw  off  all  disguise, 
Willie  had  more  than  intimated  to  her  his  own  unhappiness ; 
and  ere  she  could  find  an  opportunity  to  change  the  subject,  and 
repel  a  confidence  for  which  she  still  felt  herself  unprepared,  he 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  speak  mournfully  of  his  future  prospects 
in  life. 

The  only  construction  which  Gertrude  could  give  to  this  con 
fession  was  that  it  had  reference  to  his  engagement  with  Isabel ; 
and  it  gave  rise  at  once  to  the  suspicion  that,  infatuated  by  her 
beauty,  he  had  impulsively  and  heedlessly  bound  himself  to  one 
who  could  never  make  him  wholly  happy.  The  little  scenes  to 
which  she  had  herself  been  a  witness  corroborated  this  idea,  as, 
on  both  occasions  of  her  seeing  the  lovers  and  overhearing  their 
words,  some  cause  of  vexation  seemed  to  exist  on  Willie's  part. 

"He  loves  her,"  thought  Gertrude,  "and  is  also  bound  to 
her  in  honor ;  but  he  sees  already  the  want  of  harmony  in  their 
natures.  Poor  Willie!  It  is  impossible  he  should  ever  be 
happy  with  Isabel." 


466  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

And  Gertrude's  sympathizing  heart  mourned  not  more  deeply 
over  her  own  grief  than  over  the  disappointment  that  Willie 
must  be  experiencing,  if  he  had  ever  hoped  to  find  peace  in  a 
union  with  so  overbearing,  ill-humored,  and  unreasonable  a  girl. 

Wholly  occupied  with  these  and  similar  musings,  she  walked 
on  with  a  pace  of  whose  quickness  she  was  scarcely  herself 
aware,  and  soon  gained  the  shelter  of  the  heavy  pines  which 
bordered  the  entrance  to  the  cemetery.  Here  she  paused  for  a 
moment  to  enjoy  the  refreshing  breeze  that  played  beneath  the 
branches ;  and  then  passing  through  the  gateway,  entered  a  car 
riage  road  at  the  right,  and  proceeded  slowly  up  the  gradual 
ascent.  The  place,  always  quiet  and  peaceful,  seemed  unusu 
ally  still  and  secluded,  and  save  the  occasional  carol  of  a  bird 
there  was  no  sound  to  disturb  the  perfect  silence  and  repose. 
As  Gertrude  gazed  upon  the  familiar  beauties  of  those  sacred 
grounds,  which  had  been  her  frequent  resort  during  several 
years,  —  as  she  walked  between  beds  of  flowers,  inhaled  the 
fragrant  and  balmy  air,  and  felt  the  solemn  appeal,  the  spiritual 
breathings,  that  haunted  the  holy  place,  —  every  emotion  that 
was  not  in  harmony  with  the  scene  gradually  took  its  flight, 
and  she  experienced  only  that  sensation  of  sweet  and  half -joyful 
melancholy  which  was  awakened  by  the  thought  of  the  happy 
dead. 

After  a  while,  she  left  the  broad  road  which  she  had  been 
following,  and  turned  into  a  little  by-path.  This  she  pursued 
for  some  distance;  and  then,  again  diverging  through  another 
and  still  narrower  foot-track,  gained  the  shady  and  retired  spot 
which,  partly  from  its  remoteness  to  the  public  walks,  and 
partly  from  its  own  natural  beauty,  had  attracted  her  attention 
and  recommended  itself  to  her  choice.  It  was  situated  on  the 
slope  of  a  little  hill;  a  huge  rock  protected  it  on  one  side  from 
the  observation  of  the  passer-by,  and  a  fine  old  oak  overshad 
owed  it  upon  the  other.  The  iron  enclosure,  of  simple  work 
manship,  was  nearly  overgrown  by  the  green  ivy,  which  had 
been  planted  there  by  Gertrude's  hand,  and  the  moss-grown 
rock  also  was  festooned  by  its  graceful  and  clinging  tendrils. 
Upon  a  jutting  piece  of  stone,  directly  beside  the  grave  of  Un 
cle  True,  Gertrude  seated  herself,  as  was  her  wont,  and  after  a 
few  moments  of  contemplation,  during  which  she  sat  with  her 
elbow  upon  her  knee  and  her  head  resting  upon  her  hand,  she 
straightened  her  slight  figure,  sighed  heavily,  and  then,  lifting 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  467 

the  cover  of  her  basket,  emptied  her  flowers  upon  the  grass, 
and  with  skilful  fingers  commenced  weaving  a  graceful  chaplet, 
which  when  completed  she  placed  upon  the  grave  at  her  feet. 
With  the  remainder  of  the  blossoms  she  strewed  the  other 
mounds ;  and  then,  drawing  forth  a  pair  of  gardening  gloves  and 
a  little  trowel,  she  employed  herself  for  nearly  an  hour  among 
the  flowers  and  vines  with  which  she  had  embowered  the  spot. 

Her  work  at  last  being  finished,  she  again  placed  herself  at 
the  foot  of  the  old  rock,  removed  her  gloves,  pushed  back  from 
her  forehead  the  simple  but  heavy  braids  of  her  hair,  and  ap 
peared  to  be  resting  from  her  labors. 

It  was  seven  years  that  day  since  Uncle  True  died,  but  the 
time  had  not  yet  come  for  Gertrude  to  forget  the  simple,  kind 
old  man.  Often  did  his  pleasant  smile  and  cheering  words 
come  to  her  in  her  dreams;  and  both  by  day  and  night  did  the 
image  of  him  who  had  gladdened  and  blessed  her  childhood  en 
courage  her  to  the  imitation  of  his  humble  and  patient  virtue. 
As  she  gazed  upon  the  grassy  mound  that  covered  him,  .and 
scene  after  scene  rose  up  before  her  in  which  that  earliest  friend 
and  herself  had  whiled  away  the  happy  hours,  there  came,  to 
embitter  the  otherwise  cherished  remembrance,  the  recollection 
of  that  third  and  seldom  absent  one,  who  completed  and  made 
perfect  the  memory  of  their  fireside  joys;  and  Gertrude,  while 
yielding  to  the  inward  reflection,  unconsciously  exclaimed  aloud, 
"0  Uncle  True!  you  and  I  are  not  parted  yet;  but  Willie  is 
not  of  us !  " 

"O  Gertrude,"  said  a  reproachful  voice  close  at  her  side; 
"is  Willie  to  blame  for  that? » 

She  started,  turned,  saw  the  object  of  her  thoughts  with  his 
mild  sad  eyes  fixed  inquiringly  upon  her,  and  without  replying 
to  his  question  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet,  and,  as  on  the 
occasion  of  their  first  childish  interview,  gently  lifted  her  bowed 
head  from  the  hands  upon  which  it  had  fallen,  and  compelled 
her  to  look  him  in  the  face,  saying  at  the  same  time  in  the 
most  imploring  accents,  "  Tell  me,  Gerty,  in  pity  tell  me  why 
am  I  excluded  from  your  sympathy  ? " 

But  still  she  made  no  reply,  except  by  the  tears  that  coursed 
down  her  cheeks. 

"You  make  me  miserable,"  continued  he  vehemently. 
"  What  harve  I  done  that  you  have  so  shut  me  out  from  your 


468  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

affection  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  coldly  upon  me,  —  and  even 
shrink  from  my  sight  ? "  added  he,  as  Gertrude,  unable  to  en 
dure  his  steadfast,  searching  look,  turned  her  eyes  in  another 
direction,  and  strove  to  free  her  hands  from  his  grasp. 

"I  am  not  cold  —  I  do  not  mean  to  he,"  said  she,  her  voice 
half  choked  with  emotion. 

"0  Gertrude,"  replied  he,  relinquishing  her  hands,  and  turn 
ing  away,  "I  see  you  have  wholly  ceased  to  love  me.  I  trem 
bled  when  I  first  beheld  you,  so  lovely,  so  beautiful,  and  so 
beloved  by  all,  and  feared  lest  some  fortunate  rival  had  stolen 
your  heart  from  its  boyish  keeper.  But  even  then  I  did  not 
dream  that  you  would  refuse  me  at  least  a  brother's  claim  to 
your  affection." 

"I  will  not,"  exclaimed  Gertrude  eagerly.  "0  Willie,  you 
must  not  be  angry  with  me !  Let  me  be  your  sister !  " 

He  smiled  a  most  mournful  smile.  "I  was  right,  then," 
continued  he;  "you  feared  lest  I  should  claim  too  much,  and 
discouraged  my  presumption  by  awarding  me  nothing.  Be  it 
so.  Perhaps  your  prudence  was  for  the  best;  but,  0  Gertrude, 
it  has  made  me  heart-broken !  " 

"Willie,"  exclaimed  Gertrude  with  excitement,  "do  you 
know  how  strangely  you  are  speaking  1 " 

"  Strangely  ?  "  responded  Willie  in  a  half-offended  tone.  "  Is 
it  so  strange  that  I  should  love  you  1  Have  I  not  for  years 
cherished  the  remembrance  of  our  past  affection,  and  looked 
forward  to  our  reunion  as  my  only  hope  of  happiness  1  Has  not 
this  fond  expectation  inspired  my  labors,  and  cheered  my  toils, 
and  endeared  to  me  my  life,  in  spite  of  its  bereavements  1  And 
can  you,  in  the  very  sight  of  these  cold  mounds,  beneath  which 
lie  buried  all  else  that  I  held  dear  on  earth,  crush  and  destroy 
without  compassion  this  solitary  but  all  engrossing  —  " 

"Willie,"  interrupted  Gertrude,  her  calmness  suddenly  re 
stored,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  but  serious  tone,  "is  it  honor 
able  for  you  to  address  me  thus  ?  Have  you  forgotten  —  " 

"No,  I  have  not  forgotten,"  exclaimed  he  vehemently.  "I 
have  not  forgotten  that  I  have  no  right  to  distress  or  annoy  you, 
and  I  will  do  so  no  more.  But,  0  Gerty!  my  sister  Gerty 
(since  all  hope  of  a  nearer  tie  is  at  an  end),  blame  me  not,  and 
wonder  not,  if  I  fail  at  present  to  perform  a  brother's  part.  I 
cannot  stay  in  this  neighborhood.  I  cannot  be  the  patient  wit 
ness  of  another's  happiness.  My  services,  my  time,  my  life, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  469 

you  may  command,  and  in  my  far-distant  home  I  will  never 
cease  to  pray  that  the  husband  you  have  chosen,  whoever  he 
be,  may  prove  himself  worthy  of  my  noble  Gertrude,  and  love 
her  one  half  as  well  as  I  do ! " 

"Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  "what  madness  is  this?  I  am 
bound  by  no  such  tie  as  you  describe;  but  what  shall  I  think 
of  your  treachery  to  Isabel  ?  " 

"To  Isabel?"  cried  Willie,  starting  up,  as  if  seized  with  a 
new  idea.  "  And  has  that  silly  rumor  reached  yout  too  1  and 
did  you  put  faith  in  the  falsehood  1 " 

"  Falsehood !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  lifting  her  hitherto  droop 
ing  eyelids,  and  casting  upon  him,  through  their  wet  lashes,  a 
look  of  earnest  scrutiny. 

Calmly  returning  a  glance  which  he  had  neither  avoided  nor 
quailed  under,  Willie  responded  unhesitatingly,  and  with  a  tone 
of  astonishment  not  unmingled  with  reproach,  "Falsehood?  — 
Yes.  With  the  knowledge  you  have  both  of  her  and  myself, 
could  you  doubt  its  being  such  for  a  moment  ? " 

"  0  Willie ! "  cried  Gertrude,  "  could  I  doubt  the  evidence 
of  my  own  eyes  and  ears?  Had  I  trusted  to  less  faithful  wit 
nesses,  I  might  have  been  deceived.  Do  not  attempt  to  conceal 
from  me  the  truth  to  which  my  own  observation  can  testify. 
Treat  me  with  frankness,  Willie!  Indeed,  indeed,  I  deserve 
it  at  your  hands !  " 

"  Frankness,  Gertrude !  It  is  you  only  who  are  mysterious. 
Could  I  lay  my  whole  soul  bare  to  your  gaze,  you  would  be 
convinced  of  its  truth,  its  perfect  truth,  to  its  first  affection. 
And  as  to  Isabel  Clinton,  if  it  is  to  her  that  you  have  refer 
ence,  your  eyes  and  your  ears  have  both  played  you  false,  if  —  " 

"  0  Willie !  Willie !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  interrupting  him, 
"have  you  so  soon  forgotten  your  devotion  to  the  belle  jf  Sara 
toga  ;  your  unwillingness  to  sanction  her  temporary  absence  from 
your  sight;  the  pain  which  the  mere  suggestion  of  the  journey 
caused  you,  and  the  fond  impatience  which  threatened  to  ren 
der  those  few  days  an  eternity  ?  " 

"  Stop !  stop ! "  cried  Willie,  a  new  light  breaking  in  upon 
him,  "and  tell  me  where  you  learned  all  this." 

"In  the  very  spot  where  you  spoke  and  acted.  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  parlor  did  not  witness  our  first  meeting.  In  the  public 
promenade  ground,  on  the  shore  of  Saratoga  Lake,  and  on  board 
the  steamboat  at  Albany,  did  I  both  see  and  recognize  you  — 


470  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

myself  unknown.  There,  too,  did  your  own  words  serve  to 
convince  me  of  the  truth  of  that  which  from  other  lips  I  had 
refused  to  believe." 

The  sunshine  which  gilds  the  morning  is  scarcely  more  bright 
and  gladsome  than  the  glow  of  rekindled  hope  which  now  ani 
mated  the  face  of  Willie. 

"Listen  to  me,  Gertrude,"  said  he  in  a  fervent  and  almost 
solemn  tone,  "and  believe  that  in  sight  of  my  mother's  grave, 
and  in  the  presence  of  that  pure  spirit  (and  he  looked  reverently 
upward)  who  taught  me  the  love  of  truth,  I  speak  with  such 
sincerity  and  candor  as  are  fitting  for  the  ears  of  angels.  I  do 
not  question  the  accuracy  with  which  you  overheard  my  expos 
tulations  and  entreaties  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Clinton's  pro 
posed  journey,  or  the  impatience  I  expressed  at  parting  for  her 
speedy  return.  I  will  not  pause  either  to  inquire  where  the 
object  of  all  my  thoughts  could  have  been  at  the  time,  that, 
notwithstanding  the  changes  of  years,  she  escaped  my  eager 
eyes.  Let  me  first  clear  myself  of  the  imputation  under  which 
I  labor,  and  then  there  will  be  room  for  all  further  explana 
tions. 

"I  did,  indeed,  feel  deep  pain  at  Miss  Clinton's  sudden  de 
parture  for  New  York,  under  a  pretext  which  ought  not  to  have 
weighed  with  her  for  a  moment.  I  did  indeed  employ  every 
argument  to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose;  and  when  my  elo 
quence  had  failed  to  induce  the  abandonment  of  the  scheme,  I 
availed  myself  of  every  suggestion  and  motive  which  might  pos 
sibly  influence  her  to  shorten  her  absence.  Not  because  the 
society  of  the  selfish  girl  was  essential,  or  even  conducive,  to 
my  own  happiness,  — far  from  it,  — but  because  her  excellent 
father,  who  so  worshipped  and  idolized  his  only  child  that  he 
would  have  thought  no  sacrifice  too  great  by  means  of  which  he 
could  add  one  particle  to  her  enjoyment,  was,  at  that  very  time, 
amid  all  the  noise  and  discomfort  of  a  crowded  watering-place, 
hovering  between  life  and  death,  and  I  was  disgusted  at  the 
heartlessness  which  voluntarily  left  the  fondest  of  parents  de 
prived  of  all  female  tending,  to  the  charge  of  a  hired  nurse, 
and  an  unskilful  though  willing  youth  like  myself.  That  eter 
nity  might,  in  Miss  Clinton's  absence,  set  a  seal  to  the  life  of 
her  father,  was  a  thought  which,  in  my  indignation,  I  was  on 
the  point  of  uttering ;  but  I  checked  myself,  unwilling  to  inter- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  471 

fere  too  far  in  a  matter  which  came  not  within  my  rightful 
province,  and  perhaps  excite  unnecessary  alarm  in  Isabel.  If 
selfishness  mingled  at  all  in  my  views,  dear  Gerty,  and  made 
me  over-impatient  for  the  return  of  the  daughter  to  her  post  of 
duty,  it  was  that  I  might  be  released  from  almost  constant  at 
tendance  upon  my  invalid  friend,  and  hasten  to  her  from  whom 
I  hoped  such  warmth  of  greeting  as  I  was  only  too  eager  to  be 
stow.  Can  you  wonder,  then,  that  your  reception  struck  cold 
upon  my  throbbing  heart  ?  " 

"But  you  understand  the  cause  of  that  coldness  now,"  said 
Gertrude,  looking  up  at  him  through  a  rain  of  tears,  which,  like 
a  summer  sun-shower,  reflected  itself  in  rainbow  smiles  upon 
her  happy  countenance.  "You  know  now  why  I  dared  not  let 
my  heart  speak  out." 

"And  this  was  all,  then?"  cried  Willie;  "and  you  are  free 
and  I  may  love  you  still  ? " 

"  Free  from  all  bonds,  dear  Willie,  but  those  which  you  your 
self  clasped  around  me,  and  which  have  encircled  me  from  my 
childhood." 

And  now,  with  heart  pressed  to  heart,  they  pour  in  each 
other's  ear  the  tale  of  a  mutual  affection,  planted  in  infancy, 
nourished  in  youth,  fostered  and  strengthened  amid  separation 
and  absence,  and  perfected  through  trial,  to  bless  and  sanctify 
every  year  of  their  after  life. 

"  But,  Gerty, "  exclaimed  Willie,  as,  confidence  restored,  they 
sat  side  by  side  conversing  freely  of  the  past,  "how  could  you 
think  for  an  instant  that  Isabel  Clinton  would  have  power  to 
displace  you  in  my  regard  ?  I  was  not  guilty  of  so  great  an 
injustice  towards  you ;  for  even  when  I  believed  myself  sup 
planted  by  another,  I  fancied  that  other  some  hero  of  such 
shining  qualities  as  could  scarcely  be  surpassed." 

"And  who  could  surpass  Isabel?"  inquired  Gerty.  "Can 
you  wonder  that  I  trembled  for  your  allegiance,  when  I  thought 
of  her  beauty,  her  fashion,  her  family,  and  her  wealth,  and  re 
membered  the  forcible  manner  in  which  all  these  were  presented 
to  your  sight  and  knowledge?" 

"  But  what  are  all  these,  Gerty,  to  one  who  knows  her  as  we 
do  ?  Do  not  a  proud  eye  and  a  scornful  lip  destroy  the  effect 
of  beauty  ?  Can  fashion  excuse  rudeness,  or  noble  birth  cover 
natural  deficiencies  ?  And  as  to  money,  what  did  I  ever  want 


472  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

of  that,  except  to  employ  it  for  the  happiness  of  yourself  —  and 
them  1 "  and  he  glanced  at  the  graves  of  his  mother  and  grand 
father. 

"  0  Willie !     You  are  so  disinterested ! " 

"Not  in  this  case.  Had  Isabel  possessed  the  beauty  of  a 
Venus  and  the  wisdom  of  a  Minerva,  I  could  not  have  forgotten 
how  little  happiness  there  could  be  with  one  who,  while  devot 
ing  herself  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  had  become  dead  to  nat 
ural  affections  and  indifferent  to  the  holiest  of  duties.  Could 
I  see  her  flee  from  the  bedside  of  her  father  to  engage  in  the 
frivolities  and  drink  in  the  flatteries  of  an  idle  crowd,  —  or, 
when  unwillingly  summoned  thither,  shrink  from  the  toils  and 
the  watchings  imposed  by  his  feebleness,  —  and  still  imagine 
that  such  a  woman  could  bless  and  adorn  a  fireside  ?  Could  I 
fail  to  contrast  her  unfeeling  neglect,  ill-concealed  petulance, 
flagrant  levity,  and  irreverence  of  spirit  with  the  sweet  and  lov 
ing  devotion,  the  saintly  patience,  and  the  deep  and  fervent 
piety  of  my  own  Gertrude  ?  I  should  have  been  false  to  my 
self,  as  well  as  to  you,  dearest,  if  such  traits  of  character  as 
Miss  Clinton  constantly  evinced  could  have  weakened  my  love 
and  admiration  for  yourself.  And  now,  to  see  the  little  play 
mate  whose  image  I  cherished  so  fondly  matured  into  the  lovely 
and  graceful  woman,  her  sweet  attractions  crowned  by  so  much 
beauty  as  almost  to  place  her  beyond  recognition,  and  still  her 
heart  as  much  my  own  as  ever !  —  0  Gerty,  it  is  too  much 
happiness !  Would  that  I  could  impart  a  share  of  it  to  those 
who  loved  us  both  so  well !  " 

And  who  can  say  that  they  did  not  share  it  1  —  that  the  spirit 
of  Uncle  True  was  not  there,  to  witness  the  completion  of  his 
many  hopeful  prophecies?  that  the  old  grandfather  was  not 
there,  to  see  all  his  doubts  and  fears  giving  place  to  joyful 
certainties  1  and  that  the  soul  of  the  gentle  mother,  whose  rapt 
slumbers  had,  even  in  life,  foreshadowed  such  a  meeting,  and 
who,  by  the  lessons  she  had  given  her  child  in  his  boyhood, 
the  warnings  spoken  to  his  later  years,  and  the  ministering  guid 
ance  of  her  disembodied  spirit,  had  fitted  him  for  the  struggle 
with  temptation,  sustained  him  through  its  trials,  and  restored 
him  triumphant  to  the  sweet  friend  of  his  infancy,  —  who  shall 
say  that,  even  now,  she  hovered  not  over  them  with  parted 
wings,  realizing  the  joy  prefigured  in  that  dreamy  vision  which 
pictured  to  her  sight  the  union  between  the  son  and  daughter 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  473 

of  her  love,  when  the  one,  shielded  by  her  fond  care  from  every 
danger,  and  snatched  from  the  power  of  temptation,  should  be 
restored  to  the  arms  of  the  other,  who,  by  long  and  patient  con 
tinuance  in  well-doing,  had  earned  so  full  a  recompense,  so  all- 
sufficient  a  reward  ? 


474  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTEE  L 

"Through  night  to  light  —  in  every  stage, 
From  childhood's  morn  to  hoary  age, 
What  shall  illume  the  pilgrimage 
By  mortals  trod  ? 

11  There  is  a  pure  and  heavenly  ray, 
That  brightest  shines  in  darkest  day, 
When  earthly  beams  are  quenched  for  aye  ; 
'T  is  lit  by  God." 

THE  sun  was  casting  long  shadows,  and  the  sunset  hour  was 
near  when  Gertrude  and  Willie  rose  to  depart.  They  left  the 
cemetery  by  a  different  gateway,  and  in  the  opposite  direction 
to  that  by  which  Gertrude  had  entered.  Here  Willie  found  the 
chaise  in  which  he  had  come,  though  the  horse  had  contrived  to 
loosen  the  bridle  by  which  he  was  fastened ;  had  strayed  to  the 
side  of  the  road,  eaten  as  much  grass  as  he  wished,  or  the  place 
afforded,  and  was  now  sniffing  the  air,  looking  up  and  down  the 
road,  and,  despairing  of  his  master's  return,  seemed  on  the  point 
of  taking  his  departure. 

He  was  reclaimed,  however,  without  difficulty,  and  as  if  glad 
after  his  long  rest  to  be  again  in  motion,  brought  them  in  half 
an  hour  to  Mr.  Graham's  door. 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  Gertrude,  famil 
iar  with  the  customary  ways  of  the  family,  perceived  that  some 
thing  unusual  was  going  forward.  Lamps  were  moving  about 
in  every  direction ;  the  front  door  stood  wide  open ;  there  was, 
what  she  had  never  seen  before,  the  blaze  of  a  bright  fire  dis 
cernible  through  the  windows  of  the  best  chamber ;  and  as  they 
drew  still  nearer,  she  observed  that  the  piazza  was  half  covered 
with  trunks. 

All  these  appearances,  as  she  rightly  conjectured,  betokened 
the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Graham,  and  possibly  of  other  company. 
She  might,  perhaps,  have  regretted  the  ill-timed  coming  of  this 
bustling  lady,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  was  eager  for  a 
quiet  opportunity  to  present  Willie  to  Emily  and  her  father, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  475 

and  communicate  to  them  her  own  happiness;  but  if  such  a 
thought  presented  itself,  it  vanished  in  a  moment.  Her  joy 
was  too  complete  to  be  marred  by  so  trifling  a  disappointment. 

"Let  us  drive  up  the  avenue,  Willie,"  said  she,  "to  the  side 
door,  so  that  George  may  see  us  and  take  your  horse  to  the 
stable." 

"No,"  said  Willie,  as  he  stopped  opposite  the  front  gate; 
"I  can't  come  in  now  —  there  seems  to  be  a  house  full  of  com 
pany,  and  besides,  I  have  an  appointment  in  town  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  promised  to  be  punctual."  He  glanced  at  his  watch 
as  he  spoke,  and  added,  "It  is  near  that  already.  I  did  not 
think  of  its  being  so  late ;  but  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  may  I  not  ? "  She  looked  her  assent,  and  with  a  warm 
grasp  of  the  hand  as  he  helped  her  from  the  chaise,  and  a 
mutual  smile  of  confidence  and  love,  they  separated. 

He  drove  rapidly  towards  Boston,  and  she,  opening  the  gate, 
found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Fanny  Bruce,  who  had  been  impa 
tiently  awaiting  the  departure  of  Willie  to  seize  her  dear  Miss 
Gertrude,  and  between  tears  and  kisses  pour  out  her  congratu 
lations  and  thanks  for  her  happy  escape  from  that  horrid  steam 
boat;  for  this  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  acci 
dent. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Graham  come,  Fanny  ? "  asked  Gertrude  as,  the 
first  excitement  of  the  meeting  over,  they  walked  up  to  the 
house  together. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Mrs.  Graham,  and  Kitty,  and  Isabel,  and  a 
little  girl,  and  a  sick  gentleman,  —  Mr.  Clinton,  I  believe ;  and 
another  gentleman  —  but  he  's  gone. " 

"  Who  has  gone  1 " 

"0,  a  tall,  dignified-looking  man,  with  black  eyes,  and  a 
beautiful  face,  and  hair  as  white  as  if  he  were  old  —  and  he 
isn't  old,  either." 

"  And  do  you  say  he  has  gone  ?  " 

"Yes;  he  didn't  come  with  the  rest.  He  was  here  when  I 
came,  and  he  went  away  about  an  hour  ago.  I  heard  him  tell 
Miss  Emily  that  he  had  agreed  to  meet  a  friend  in  Boston,  but 
perhaps  he  'd  come  back  this  evening.  I  hope  he  will,  Miss 
Gertrude ;  you  ought  to  see  him. " 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  through  the  open  door 
Gertrude  could  plainly  distinguish  the  loud  tones  of  Mrs.  Gra 
ham's  voice,  proceeding  from  the  parlor  on  the  right.  She 


476  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

was  talking  to  her  husband  and  Emily,  and  was  just  saying  as 
Gertrude  entered,  "0,  it  was  the  most  awful  thing  I  ever 
heard  of  in  my  life!  and  to  think,  Emily,  of  your  being  on 
board,  and  our  Isabel!  Poor  child!  she  hasn't  got  her  color 
back  yet,  after  her  fright.  And  Gertrude  Flint,  too !  By  the 
way,  they  say  Gertrude  behaved  very  well.  Where  is  the 
child?" 

Turning  round,  she  now  saw  Gertrude,  who  was  just  enter 
ing  the  room,  and  going  towards  her,  she  kissed  her  with  con 
siderable  heartiness  and  sincerity;  for  Mrs.  Graham,  though 
somewhat  coarse  and  blunt,  was  not  without  good  feelings  when 
the  occasion  was  such  as  to  awaken  them. 

Gertrude's  entrance  having  served  to  interrupt  the  stream  of 
exclamatory  remarks  in  which  the  excitable  lady  had  been  in 
dulging  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  she  now  bethought  herself  of 
the  necessity  of  removing  her  bonnet  and  outside  garments,  a 
part  of  which,  being  loosed  from  their  fastenings,  she  had  been 
dragging  after  her  about  the  floor. 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  she,  "  I  suppose  I  had  better  follow  the 
girls'  example,  and' go  and  get  some  of  the  dust  off  from  me! 
I  'm  half  buried,  I  believe !  But  there,  that 's  better  than  com 
ing  on  in  the  horrid  steamboat,  last  night,  as  my  brother  Clin 
ton  was  so  crazy  as  to  propose.  Where's  Bridget?  I  want 
her  to  take  up  some  of  my  things." 

"I  will  assist  you,"  said  Gertrude,  taking  up  a  little  carpet 
bag,  throwing  a  scarf  which  had  been  stretching  across  the  room 
over  her  arm,  and  then  following  Mrs.  Graham  closely,  in  order 
to  support  the  heavy  travelling  shawl  which  was  hanging  half 
off  that  lady's  shoulders.  At  the  first  landing-place,  however, 
she  found  herself  suddenly  encircled  in  Kitty's  warm  embrace, 
and  laying  down  her  burdens,  gave  herself  up  for  a  few  moments 
to  the  hugging  and  kissing  that  succeeded. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase  she  met  Isabel,  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown,  with  a  large  pitcher  in  her  hand,  and  a  most 
discontented  and  dissatisfied  expression  of  countenance.  She 
set  the  pitcher  on  the  floor,  however,  and  saluted  Gertrude  with 
a  good  grace.  "I  'm  glad  to  see  you  alive,"  said  she,  "though 
I  can't  look  at  you  without  shuddering,  it  reminds  me  so  of 
that  dreadful  day  when  we  were  in  such  frightful  danger.  How 
lucky  we  were  to  be  saved,  when  there  were  so  many  drowned! 
I 've  wondered,  ever  since,  Gertrude,  how  you  could  be  so 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  477 

calm;  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do  if  you 
had  n't  been  there  to  suggest.  But,  0,  dear!  don't  let  us  speak 
of  it;  it 's  a  thing  I  can't  bear  to  think  of ! "  and  with  a  shud 
der  and  shrug  of  the  shoulders  Isabel  dismissed  the  subject  and 
called  somewhat  pettishly  to  Kitty,  "  Kitty,  I  thought  you  went 
to  get  our  pitcher  filled !  " 

Kitty,  who,  in  obedience  to  a  loud  call  and  demand  from  her 
aunt,  had  hastily  run  to  her  room,  with  the  little  travelling-bag 
which  Gertrude  had  dropped  on  the  staircase,  now  came  back 
quite  out  of  breath,  saying,  "  I  did  ring  the  bell  twice.  Has  n't 
anybody  come  ? " 

"No!"  replied  Belle;  "and  I  should  like  to  wash  my  face 
and  curl  my  hair  before  tea,  if  I  could." 

"  Let  me  take  the  pitcher, "  said  Gertrude.  "  I  am  going  down 
stairs,  and  will  send  Jane  up  with  the  water." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Belle  rather  feebly;  while  Kitty  ex 
claimed,  "No,  no,  Gertrude;  I'll  go  myself." 

But  it  was  too  late ;  Gertrude  had  gone. 

Gertrude  found  Mrs.  Ellis  full  of  troubles  and  perplexities. 
"Only  think,"  said  the  astonished  housekeeper,  "of  their  com 
ing,  five  of  them,  without  the  least  warning  in  the  world;  and 
here  I  've  nothing  in  the  house  fit  for  tea  —  not  a  bit  of  rich 
cake,  not  a  scrap  of  cold  ham!  And  of  course,  they  're  hungry 
after  their  long  journey,  and  will  want  something  nice! " 

"0,  if  they  are  very  hungry,  Mrs.  Ellis,  they  can  eat  dried 
beef,  and  fresh  biscuit,  and  plain  cake ;  and  if  you  will  give  me 
the  keys,  I  will  get  out  the  preserves  and  the  best  silver,  and 
see  that  the  table  is  set  properly." 

Nothing  was  a  trouble  to  Gertrude  that  night.  Everything 
that  she  touched  went  right.  Jane  caught  her  spirit,  and  be 
came  astonishingly  active ;  and  when  ttie  really  bountiful  table 
was  spread,  and  Mrs.  Ellis,  after  glancing  around,  and  seeing 
that  all  was  as  it  should  be,  looked  into  the  beaming  eyes  and 
observed  the  glowing  cheek  and  sunny  smile  of  the  happy  girl, 
she  exclaimed,  in  her  ignorance,  "  Good  gracious,  Gertrude !  any 
body  would  think  you  were  overjoyed  to  see  all  these  folks  back 
again ! " 

It  wanted  but  a  few  moments  to  tea  time,  and  Gertrude  was 
selecting  fresh  napkins  from  a  drawer  in  the  china-closet,  when 
Kitty  Kay  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and  finally  entered,  leading 
by  the  hand  a  little  girl  neatly  dressed  in  black.  Her  face 


478  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

was  at  first  full  of  smiles;  but  the  moment  she  attempted  to 
speak  she  burst  into  tears,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  Ger 
trude's  neck,  whispered  in  her  ear,  "O  Gertrude,  I'm  so 
happy !  I  came  to  tell  you !  " 

"Happy?"  replied  Gertrude;  "then  you  mustn't  cry." 

Upon  this,  Kitty  laughed,  and  then  cried  again,  and  then 
laughed  once  more,  and  in  the  intervals  explained  to  Gertrude 
that  she  was  engaged,  —  had  been  engaged  a  week,  to  the  best 
man  in  the  world,  —  and  that  the  child  she  held  by  the  hand 
was  his  orphan  niece,  and  just  like  a  daughter  to  him.  "And 
only  think,"  continued  she,  "it 's  all  owing  to  you!" 

"  To  me  '\ "  said  the  astonished  Gertrude. 

"Yes;  because  I  was  so  vain  and  silly,  you  know,  and  liked 
folks  that  were  not  worth  liking,  and  didn't  care  much  for  any 
body's  comfort  but  my  own;  and  if  you  hadn't  taught  me  to 
be  something  better  than  that,  and  set  me  a  good  example, 
which  I  've  tried  to  follow  ever  since,  he  never  would  have 
thought  of  looking  at  me,  much  less  loving  me,  and  believing 
I  should  be  a  fit  mother  for  little  Gracie,  here,"  and  she  looked 
down  affectionately  at  the  child,  who  was  clinging  fondly  to 
her.  "  He  is  a  minister,  Gertrude,  and  very  good.  Only  think 
of  such  a  childish  creature  as  I  am  being  a  minister's  wife! " 

The  sympathy  which  Kitty  came  to  claim  was  not  denied 
her,  and  Gertrude,  with  her  own  eyes  brimming  with  tears,  as 
sured  her  of  her  full  participation  in  her  joy. 

In  the  mean  time,  little  Grace,  who  still  clung  to  Kitty  with 
one  hand,  had  gently  inserted  the  other  within  that  of  Ger 
trude,  who,  looking  down  upon  her  for  the  first  time,  recog 
nized  the  child  whom  she  had  rescued  from  persecution  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Saratoga. 

Kitty  was  charmed  with  the  coincidence,  and  Gertrude,  as 
she  remarked  the  happy  transformation  which  had  already  been 
effected  in  the  countenance  and  dress  of  the  little  girl  who  had 
been  so  sadly  in  want  of  female  superintendence,  felt  an  added 
conviction  of  the  wisdom  of  the  young  clergyman's  choice. 

Kitty  was  eager  to  give  Gertrude  a  description  of  her  lover, 
but  a  summons  to  the  tea  table  compelled  her  to  postpone  all 
further  communications. 

Mr.  Graham's  cheerful  parlor  had  never  looked  so  cheerful 
as  on  that  evening.  The  weather  was  mild,  but  a  light  fire, 
which  had  been  kindled  on  Mr.  Clinton's  account,  did  not  ren- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  479 

der  the  room  too  warm.  It  had,  however,  driven  the  young 
people  into  a  remote  corner,  leaving  the  neighborhood  of  the 
ti  replace  to  Mrs.  Graham  and  Emily,  who  occupied  the  sofa, 
and  Mr.  Clinton  and  Mr.  Graham,  whose  arm-chairs  were  placed 
on  the  opposite  side. 

This  arrangement  enabled  Mr.  Graham  to  converse  freely  and 
uninterruptedly  with  his  guest  upon  some  grave  topic  of  inter 
est,  while  his  talkative  wife  entertained  herself  and  Emily  by 
a  recapitulation  of  her  travels  and  adventures.  On  a  table,  at 
the  further  extremity  of  the  room,  was  placed  a  huge  portfolio 
of  beautiful  engravings,  recently  purchased  and  brought  home 
by  Mr.  Graham,  and  representing  a  series  of  European  views. 
Gertrude  and  Kitty  were  turning  them  carefully  over;  and  lit 
tle  Grace,  who  was  sitting  in  Kitty's  lap,  and  Fanny,  who  was 
leaning  over  Gertrude's  shoulder,  were  listening  eagerly  to  the 
young  ladies'  explanations  and  comments. 

Occasionally  Isabel,  the  only  restless  or  unoccupied  person 
present,  would  lean  over  the  table  to  glance  at  the  likeness  of 
some  familiar  spot,  and  exclaim,  "Kitty,  there  's  the  shop  where 
I  bought  my  blue  silk! "  or,  "Kitty,  there  's  the  waterfall  that 
we  visited  in  company  with  the  Russian  officers ! " 

While  the  assembled  company  were  thus  occupied  the  door 
opened,  and  without  any  announcement  Mr.  Amory  and  William 
Sullivan  entered. 

Had  either  made  his  appearance  singly,  he  would  have  been 
looked  upon  with  astonishment  by  the  majority  of  the  company; 
but  coming,  as  they  did,  together,  and  with  an  apparently  good 
understanding  existing  between  them,  there  was  no  countenance 
present  (save  the  children's)  which  expressed  any  emotion  but 
that  of  utter  surprise. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham,  however,  were  too  much  accustomed 
to  society  to  betray  any  further  evidence  of  that  sentiment  than 
was  contained  in  a  momentary  glance,  and  rising,  received  their 
visitors  with  due  politeness  and  propriety.  The  former  nodded 
carelessly  to  Mr.  Amory,  whom  he  had  seen  in  the  morning, 
presented  him  to  Mr.  Clinton  (without,  however,  mentioning 
the  existing  connection  with  himself),  and  was  preparing  to  go 
through  the  same  ceremony  to  Mrs.  Graham,  but  was  saved  the 
trouble,  as  she  had  not  forgotten  the  acquaintance  formed  at 
Baden-Baden. 

Willie's  knowledge  of  the  company  also  spared  the  necessity 


480  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

of  introduction  to  all  but  Emily ;  and  that  being  accidentally 
omitted,  he  gave  an  arch  glance  at  Gertrude,  and  taking  an  of 
fered  seat  near  Isabel,  entered  into  conversation  with  her;  Mr. 
Amory  being  in  like  manner  engrossed  by  Mrs.  Graham. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  whispered  Fanny,  as  soon  as  the  inter 
rupted  composure  of  the  party  was  once  more  restored,  and 
glancing  at  Willie  as  she  spoke,  "that's  the  gentleman  you 
were  out  driving  with  this  afternoon.  I  know  it  is,"  contin 
ued  she,  as  she  observed  Gertrude  change  color,  and  endeavor 
to  hush  her,  while  she  looked  anxiously  round,  as  if  fearful  the 
remark  had  been  overheard;  "is  it  Willie,  Gertrude?  is  it 
Mr.  Sullivan?" 

Gertrude  became  more  and  more  embarrassed,  while  the  mis 
chievous  Fanny  continued  to  ply  her  with  questions ;  and  Isabel, 
who  had  jealously  noticed  that  Willie's  eyes  wandered  more 
than  once  to  the  table,  turned  on  her  such  a  scrutinizing  look 
as  rendered  her  confusion  distressing. 

Accident  came  to  her  relief,  however.  The  housemaid,  with 
the  evening  paper,  endeavored  to  open  the  door,  against  which 
her  chair  was  placed;  thus  giving  her  an  opportunity  to  rise, 
receive  the  paper,  and  at  the  same  time  an  unimportant  mes 
sage.  While  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Clinton  left  his  chair, 
with  the  feeble  step  of  an  invalid,  crossed  the  room,  addressed 
a  question  in  a  low  voice  to  Willie,  and  receiving  an  affirniatory 
reply,  took  Isabel  by  the  hand,  and  approaching  Mr.  Amory, 
exclaimed,  with  deep  emotion,  "  Sir,  Mr.  Sullivan  tells  me  that 
you  are  the  person  who  saved  the  life  of  my  daughter;  and 
here  she  is  to  thank  you." 

Mr.  Amory  rose  and  flung  his  arm  over  the  shoulder  and 
around  the  waist  of  Gertrude,  who  was  passing  on  her  way  to 
hand  the  newspaper  to  Mr.  Graham,  and  who,  not  having  heard 
the  remark  of  Mr.  Clinton,  received  the  caress  with  a  sweet 
smile  and  an  upturned  face.  "Here,"  said  he,  "Mr.  Clinton, 
is  the  person  who  saved  the  life  of  your  daughter.  It  is  true 
that  I  swam  with  her  to  the  shore;  but  it  was  under  the  mis 
taken  impression  that  I  was  bearing  to  a  place  of  safety  my  own 
darling  child,  whom  I  little  suspected  then  of  having  voluntarily 
relinquished  to  another  her  only  apparent  chance  of  rescue." 

"Just  like  you,  Gertrude!  Just  like  you!"  shouted  Kitty 
and  Fanny  in  a  breath,  each  struggling  to  obtain  a  foremost  place 
in  the  little  circle  that  had  gathered  round  her. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  481 

"  My  own  noble  Gertrude ! "  whispered  Emily,  as,  leaning 
on  Mr.  Amory's  arm,  she  pressed  Gertrude's  hand  to  her  lips. 

"0  Gertrude!"  exclaimed  Isabel,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "I 
did  n't  know.  I  never  thought  —  " 

"Your  child? "  cried  Mrs.  Graham's  loud  voice,  interrupting 
Isabel's  unfinished  exclamation. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  thank  God ! "  said  Mr.  Amory  reverently ; 
"restored,  at  last,  to  her  unworthy  father,  and  —  you  have  no 
secrets  here,  my  darling  ? "  —  Gertrude  shook  her  head,  and 
glanced  at  Willie,  who  now  stood  at  her  side  —  "and  gladly 
bestowed  by  him  upon  her  faithful  and  far  more  deserving 
lover."  And  he  placed  her  hand  in  Willie's. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  All  were  impressed  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  action.  Then  Mr.  Graham  came  forward, 
shook  each  of  the  young  couple  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  pass 
ing  his  sleeve  hastily  across  his  eyes  sought  his  customary  refuge 
in  the  library. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Fanny,  pulling  Gertrude's  dress  to  attract 
her  attention,  and  speaking  in  a  loud  whisper,  "are  you  en 
gaged  ?  are  you  engaged  to  him  ?  " 

"Yes,"  whispered  Gertrude,  anxious,  if  possible,  to  gratify 
Fanny's  curiosity  and  silence  her  questioning. 

"0!  I'm  so  glad!  I 'm  so  glad !"  shouted  Fanny,  dancing 
round  the  room  and  flinging  up  her  arms. 

"And  I  'm  glad,  too!  "  said  Gracie,  catching  the  tone  of  con 
gratulation,  and  putting  her  mouth  up  to  Gertrude  for  a  kiss. 

"And  Jam  glad,"  said  Mr.  Clinton,  placing  his  hands  upon 
those  of  Willie  and  Gertrude,  which  were  still  clasped  together, 
"  that  the  noble  and  self-sacrificing  girl,  whom  I  have  no  words 
to  thank,  and  no  power  to  repay,  has  reaped  a  worthy  reward  in 
the  love  of  one  of  the  few  men  with  whom  a  fond  father  may 
venture  wholly  to  trust  the  happiness  of  his  child. " 

Exhausted  by  so  much  excitement,  Mr.  Clinton  now  com 
plained  of  sudden  faintness,  and  was  assisted  to  his  room  by 
Willie,  who,  after  waiting  to  see  him  fully  restored,  returned 
to  receive  the  blessing  of  Emily  upon  his  new  hopes,  and  hear 
with  wonder  and  delight  the  circumstances  which  attended  the 
discovery  of  Gertrude's  parentage. 

For  although  it  was  an  appointment  to  meet  Mr.  Amory 
which  had  summoned  him  back  to  Boston,  and  he  had  in  the 
course  of  their  interview  acquainted  him  with  the  happy  termi- 


482  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

nation  of  a  lover's  doubts,  he  had  not,  until  the  disclosure  took 
place  in  Mr.  Graham's  parlor,  received  in  return  the  slightest 
hint  of  the  great  surprise  which  awaited  him.  He  had  felt  a 
little  astonishment  at  his  friend's  expressed  desire  to  join  him 
at  once  in  a  visit  to  Mr.  Graham's;  but,  on  being  informed  that 
he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Graham  in  Germany, 
he  concluded  that  a  desire  to  renew  his  intercourse  with  the 
family,  and  possibly  a  slight  curiosity  to  see  the  lady  of  his  own 
choice,  were  the  only  motives  which  had  influenced  him. 

And  now,  amid  retrospections  of  the  past,  thanksgiving  for 
the  present,  and  hopes  and  aspirations  for  the  future,  the  even 
ing  passed  rapidly  away. 

"  Come  here,  Gerty !  "  said  Willie ;  "  come  to  the  window, 
and  see  what  a  beautiful  night  it  is." 

It  was  indeed  a  glorious  night.  Snow  lay  on  the  ground. 
The  air  was  intensely  cold  without,  as  might  be  judged  from 
the  quick  movements  of  pedestrians,  and  the  brilliant  icicles 
with  which  everything  that  had  an  edge  was  fringed.  The 
stars  were  glittering,  too,  as  they  never  glitter  except  on  the 
most  intense  of  winter  nights.  The  moon  was  just  peeping 
above  an  old  brown  building,  —  the  same  old  corner  building 
which  had  been  visible  from  the  doorstep  where  Willie  and 
Gerty  were  wont  to  sit  in  their  childhood,  and  from  behind 
which  they  had  often  watched  the  coming  of  that  same  round 
moon. 

Leaning  on  Willie's  shoulder,  Gertrude  stood  gazing  until 
the  full  circle  was  visible  in  a  space  of  clear  and  cloudless  ether. 
Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  their  hearts  throbbed  with  the  same 
emotion  as  they  thought  of  the  days  that  were  past. 

Just  then  the  gas-man  came  quickly  up  the  street,  lit  as  by 
an  electric  touch  the  bright  burners  that  in  close  ranks  lined 
either  sidewalk,  and  in  a  moment  more  was  out  of  sight. 

Gertrude  sighed.  "It  was  no  such  easy  task  for  poor  old 
Uncle  True,"  said  she;  "there  have  been  great  improvements 
since  his  time." 

"  There  have,  indeed !  "  said  Willie,  glancing  round  the  well- 
lit,  warm,  and  pleasantly  furnished  parlor  of  his  own  and  Ger 
trude's  home,  and  resting  his  eyes  at  last  upon  the  beloved 
one  by  his  side,  whose  beaming  face  but  reflected  back  his  own 
happiness,  —  "  such  improvements,  Gerty,  as  we  only  dreamt  of 


THE   LAMPLIGHTER  483 

once.  I  wish  the  dear  old  man  could  be  here  to  see  and  share 
them ! " 

A  tear  started  to  Gertrude's  eye;  but  pressing  Willie's  arm, 
she  pointed  reverently  upward  to  a  beautiful,  bright  star,  just 
breaking  forth  from  a  silvery  film,  which  had  hitherto  half  over 
shadowed  it,  —  the  star  through  which  Gertrude  had  ever  fancied 
she  could  discern  the  smile  of  the  kind  old  man. 

"Dear  Uncle  True! "  said  she,  "his  lamp  still  burns  brightly 
in  heaven,  Willie ;  and  its  light  is  not  yet  gone  out  on  earth ! " 

In  a  beautiful  town  about  thirty  miles  from  Boston,  and  on 
the  shore  of  one  of  those  hill-embosomed  ponds  which  would 
be  immortalized  by  the  poet  in  a  country  less  rich  than  ours 
with  such  sheets  of  blue,  transparent  water,  there  stood  a  man 
sion  house  of  solid  though  ancient  architecture.  It  had  been 
the  property  of  Philip  Amory's  paternal  grandparents,  and  the 
early  home  arid  sole  inheritance  of  his  father,  who  so  cherished 
the  spot  that  it  was  only  with  great  reluctance,  and  when  driven 
to  the  act  by  the  spur  of  poverty,  that  he  was  induced  to  part 
with  the  much- valued  estate. 

To  reclaim  the  venerable  homestead,  repair  and  judiciously 
modernize  the  house,  and  fertilize  and  adorn  the  grounds,  wa& 
a  favorite  scheme  with  Philip.  His  ample  means  now  render 
ing  it  practicable,  he  lost  no  time  in  putting  it  into  execution, 
and  the  spring  after  he  returned  from  his  wanderings  saw  the 
work  in  a  fair  way  to  be  speedily  completed. 

In  the  mean  time,  Gertrude's  marriage  had  taken  place,  the 
Grahams  had  removed  to  their  house  in  town  (which,  out  of 
compliment  to  Isabel,  who  was  passing  the  winter  with  her 
aunt,  was  more  than  ever  crowded  with  gay  company),  and  the 
bustling  mistress  was  already  projecting  changes  in  her  hus 
band's  country  seat. 

And  Emily,  who  had  parted  with  her  greatest  treasure,  and 
found  herself  in  an  atmosphere  which  was  little  in  harmony 
with  her  spirit,  murmured  not;  but,  contented  with  her  lot, 
neither  dreamed  of  nor  asked  for  outward  change,  until  Philip 
came  to  her  one  day,  and  taking  her  hand,  said  gently,  — 

"This  is  no  home  for  you,  Emily.  You  are  as  much  alone 
os  I  in  my  solitary  farmhouse.  We  loved  each  other  in  child 
hood,  our  hearts  became  one  in  youth,  and  have  continued  so 
until  now.  Why  should  we  be  longer  parted?  Your  father 


484  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

will  not  oppose  our  wishes;  and  will  you,  dearest,  refuse  to 
bless  and  gladden  the  lonely  life  of  your  gray-haired  lover  ? " 

But  Emily  shook  her  head,  while  she  answered,  with  her 
smile  of  ineffable  sweetness,  — 

"O,  no,  Philip!  do  not  speak  of  it!  Think  of  my  frail 
health  and  my  helplessness !  " 

"Your  health,  dear  Emily,  is  improving.  The  roses  are 
already  coming  back  to  your  cheeks;  and  for  your  helplessness, 
what  task  can  be  so  sweet  to  me  as  teaching  you,  through  my 
devotion,  to  forget  it  ?  0,  do  not  send  me  away  disappointed, 
Emily !  A  cruel  fate  divided  us  for  years ;  do  not  by  your  own 
act  prolong  that  separation!  Believe  me,  a  union  with  my 
early  love  is  my  brightest,  my  only  hope  of  happiness ! " 

And  she  did  not  withdraw  the  hand  which  he  held,  but 
yielded  the  other  also  to  his  fervent  clasp. 

"My  only  thought  had  been,  dear  Philip,"  said  she,  "that 
ere  this  I  should  have  been  called  to  my  Father's  home;  and 
even  now  I  feel  many  a  warning  that  I  cannot  be  very  long  for 
earth;  but  while  I  stay,  be  it  longer  or  shorter,  it  shall  be  as 
you  wish.  No  word  of  mine  shall  part  hearts  so  truly  one,  and 
your  home  shall  be  mine." 

And  when  the  grass  turned  green,  and  the  flowers  sent  up 
their  fragrance,  and  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches,  and  the 
spring  gales  blew  soft  and  made  a  gentle  ripple  on  the  water, 
Emily  came  to  live  on  the  hillside  with  Philip.  And  Mrs. 
Ellis  came  too,  to  superintend  all  things,  and  especially  the 
dairy,  which  became  henceforth  her  pride.  She  had  long  since 
tearfully  implored,  and  easily  obtained,  the  forgiveness  of  the 
much- wronged  Philip;  and  proved,  by  the  humility  of  her  vol 
untary  confession,  that  she  was  not  without  a  woman's  heart. 

Mrs.  Prime  pleaded  hard  for  the  cook's  situation  at  the  farm; 
but  Emily  kindly  expostulated  with  her,  saying,  — 

"  We  cannot  all  leave  my  father,  Mrs.  Prime.  Who  would 
see  to  his  hot  toast,  and  the  fire  in  the  library  ? "  and  the  good 
old  woman  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light,  and  submitted. 

And  is  the  long- wandering,  much-suffering,  and  deeply  sor 
rowing  exile  happy  now?  He  is;  but  his  peace  springs  not 
from  his  beautiful  home,  his  wide  possessions,  and  honorable 
repute  among  his  fellow-men,  or  even  the  love  of  the  gentle 
Emily. 

All  these  are  blessings  that  he  well  knows  how  to  prize ;  but 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  485 

his  world- tried  soul  has  found  a  deeper  anchor  yet,  —  a  surer 
refuge  from  the  tempest  and  the  storm;  for  through  the  power 
of  a  living  faith  he  has  laid  hold  on  eternal  life.  The  blind 
girl's  prayers  are  answered;  her  last,  best  work  is  done;  she 
has  cast  a  ray  from  her  blessed  spirit  into  his  darkened  soul; 
and  should  her  call  to  depart  soon  come,  she  will  leave  behind 
one  to  follow  in  her  footsteps,  fulfil  her  charities,  arid  do  good 
on  earth,  until  such  time  as  he  be  summoned  to  join  her  again 
in  heaven. 

As  they  go  forth  in  the  summer  evening,  to  breathe  the 
balmy  air,  listen  to  the  winged  songster  of  the  grove,  and  drink 
in  the  refreshing  influences  of  a  summer  sunset,  all  things  speak 
a  holy  peace  to  the  new-born  heart  of  him  who  has  so  long  been 
a  man  of  sorrow. 

As  the  sun  sinks  among  gorgeous  clouds,  as  the  western  light 
grows  dim,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  come  forth  in  their  sol 
emn  beauty,  they  utter  a  lesson  to  his  awakened  soul;  and  the 
voice  of  nature  around,  and  the  still,  small  voice  within,  whis 
per  in  gentlest,  holiest  accents,  — 

"The  sun  shall  be  no  more  thy  light  by  day;  neither  for 
brightness  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee:  but  the  Lord 
shall  be  unto  thee  an  everlasting  light,  and  thy  God  thy  glory. 

"Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy  moon 
withdraw  itself:  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  everlasting  light, 
and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be  ended." 


THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 


GENERAL  LIBRARY- U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOOD83SM13 


